IC-NRLF 


MS    S33 


LITTLE 

NORSK 


&&>3r<& 


H  tattle  IRorsh 

OR 

©V  pap'0  Iflayen 


BY 

HAMLIN   GARLAND 

AUTHOR   OF    MAIN    TRAVELED    ROADS 

A   MEMBER   OF   THE   THIRD    HOUSE,    A   SPOIL   OF    OFFICE 
JASON    EDWARDS,    ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

D.  APPLETON   AND  COMPANY 
1892 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED  AT  THE 
APPLETON  PRESS,  U.  S.  A. 


LS 


On  tbe  plain. 

Mi/  cabin  cowers  in  the  pathless  sweep 

Of  the  terrible  northern  blast; 

Above  its  roof  the  wild  clouds  leap 

And  shriek  as  they  hurtle  past. 

The  snow-waves  hiss  along  the  plain,  . 

Like  spectral  ivolves  they  stretch  and  strain 

And  race  and  ramp  —  with  hissing  beat, 

Like  stealthy  tread  of  myriad  feet, 

I  hear  them  pass;  upon  the  roof 

The  icy  showers  sivirl  and  rattle; 

At  times  the  moon,  from  storms  aloof, 

Shines  white  and  wan  within  the  room  — 

Then  swift  clouds  drive  across  the  light 

And  all  the  plain  is  lost  to  sight, 

The  cabin  rocks,  and  on  my  palm 

The  sifted  snow  falls,  cold  and  calm. 

God  !    What  a  power  is  in  the  wind  ! 

I  lay  my  cheek  to  the  cabin  side 

To  feel  the  weight  of  his  giant  hands— 

A  speck,  a  fly  in  the  blasting  tide 

Of  streaming,  pitiless,  icy  sands; 

A  single  heart  with  its  feeble  beat— 

A  mouse  in  the  lion's  throat  — 

A  swimmer  at  sea  —  a  sunbeam's  mote 

In  the  grasp  of  a  tempest  of  hail  and  sleet  ! 


627109 


Contents. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Her  Adoptive  Parents, 

CHAPTER   II. 
Her  First  Trip  in  a  Blizzard,     .         .         .9 

CHAPTER    III. 
The  Burial  of  her  Dead  Mother,         .  22 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Flaxen  Adopts  Anson  as  "  Pap, " 

CHAPTER   V. 

Flaxen  Becomes  Indispensable  to  the  Two 
Old  Bachelors,      .  .38 

CHAPTER   VI. 

A  Question  of  Dress,  .  .46 

CHAPTER    VII. 
After  Harvest,  -         •         •    69 


Contente, 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

PAGE 

An  Empty  House, 78 

CHAPTER    IX. 
"Baching"  it  Again,  ...  86 

CHAPTER    X. 
Flaxen  Comes  Home  on  a  Vacation,  .   105 

CHAPTER    XI. 
Flaxen  Grows  Restless,       .         .         .         .113 

CHAPTER   XII. 
Flaxen  Says  Good-bye,       .   .     ..         .         .124 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
Flaxen 's  Great  Need,          .         .         .         .133 

CHAPTER   XIV. 
Kendall  Steps  Out, 148 

CHAPTER   XV. 
Bert  Conies  Back,        .  .153 


A  LITTLE  NORSK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HER  ADOPTIVE   PARENTS. 


NS,  the  next  time  you  twist  hay 
f  r  the  fire,  I  wish't  you'd 
dodge  the  damp  spots,"  said 
the  cook,  rising  from  a  pro 
longed  scrutiny  of  the  stove  and  the  bread 
in  the  oven.  His  pose  was  threatening. 

"Cooks  are  always  grumblin',"  calmly 
remarked  Anson,  drawing  on  his  gloves 
preparatory  to  going  out   to   the  barn; 
"  but  seein'   's  this  is  Chris'mus,  I'll  go 
out  an'  knock  a  barrel  to  pieces.     I  want 
them  biscuit  to  be  0.  K.     See?" 
"Yes:  I  see." 
"Say,  Bert!" 
"Well?" 


B  3Little 


"  Can't  we  have  some  sugar- 'lasses  on 
our  biscuits,  seein'  it's  Chris'mus?" 

"Well,  I  s'pose  we  can,  Ans;  but  we're 
gittin'  purty  low  on  the  thing  these  days, 
an'  they  ain't  no  tellin'  when  we'll  be 
able  to  git  more." 

"Well,  jes'  as  you  say,  not  as  I  care." 
Anson  went  out  into  the  roaring  wind 
with  a  shout  of  defiance,  but  came  back 
instantly,  as  if  to  say  something  he  had 
forgotten.  "  Say,  wha'  d'ye  s'pose  is  the 
trouble  over  to  the  Norsk's?  I  hain't 
seen  a  sign  o'  smoke  over  there  f 'r  two  'r 
three  days." 

"Well,  now  you  speak  of  it,  Ans,  I've 
be'n  thinkin'  about  that  myself.  I'm 
afraid  he's  out  o'  coal,  'r  sick,  'r  some- 
thin'.  It  'u'd  be  mighty  tough  f'r  the 
woman  an'  babe  to  be  there  without  any 
fire,  an'  this  blizzard  whoopin'  her  up. 
I  guess  you'd  better  go  over  an'  see  what's 
up.  I  was  goin'  to  speak  of  it  this 
mornin',  but  f'rgot  it.  I'm  cook  this 
week,  so  I  guess  the  job  falls  on  you." 

"All  right.     Here  goes." 

"  Better  take  a  horse." 


1ber  parents. 


"  No :  I  guess  not.  The  snow  is  drif  tin' 
purty  bad,  an'  he  couldn't  git  through 
the  drifts,  anyway." 

"  Well,  lookout  f ' r  y'rself,  oP  man.  It 
looks  purty  owly  off  in  the  west.  Don't 
waste  any  time.  I'd  hate  like  thunder 
to  be  left  alone  on  a  Dakota  prairie  f 'r 
the  rest  o'  the  winter." 

Anson  laughed  back  through  the  mist 
of  snow  that  blew  in  the  open  door,  his 
great-coat  and  cap  allowing  only  a  glimpse 
of  his  cheeks. 

The  sky  was  bright  overhead,  but  low 
down  around  the  horizon  it  looked 
wild.  The  air  was  frightfully  cold — 
far  below  zero — and  the  wind  had  been 
blowing  almost  every  day  for  a  week,  and 
was  still  strong.  The  snow  was  sliding 
fitfully  along  the  sod  with  a  stealthy,  men 
acing  motion,  and  far  off  in  the  west  and 
north  a  dense,  shining  cloud  of  frost  was 
hanging. 

The  plain  was  almost  as  lone  and  level 
and  bare  as  a  polar  ocean,  where  death 
and  silence  reign  undisputedly.  There  was 
not  a  tree  in  sight,  the  grass  was  mainly 


Xfttle  morsfc. 


burned,  or  buried  by  the  snow,  and  the 
little  shanties  of  the  three  or  four  settlers 
could  hardly  be  said  to  be  in  sight,  half 
sunk,  as  they  were,  in  drifts.  A  large 
white  owl  seated  on  a  section  stake  was  the 
only  living  thing  to  be  seen. 

The  boom  had  not  yet  struck  Buster 
County.  Indeed,  it  did  not  seem  to  Bert 
Gearheart  at  this  moment  that  it  would 
ever  strike  Buster  County.  It  was  as 
cold,  dreary,  and  unprofitable  an  outlook 
as  a  man  could  face  and  not  go  utterly 
mad.  If  any  of  these  pioneers  could  have 
forecast  the  winter,  they  would  not  have 
dared  to  pass  it  on  the  plains. 

Bert  watched  his  partner  as  he  strode 
rapidly  across  the  prairie,  now  lost  to 
sight  as  a  racing  troop  of  snow-waves, 
running  shoulder-high,  shot  between, 
now  reappearing  as  the  wind  lulled. 

"  This  is  gittin'  pretty  monotonous,  to 
tell  the  honest  truth,"  he  muttered  as  he 
turned  from  the  little  window.  "  If  that 
railroad  don't  show  up  by  March,  in  some 
shape  or  other,  I'm  goin'  to  give  it  up. 
Gittin'  free  land  like  this  is  a  little  too 


fber 


costly  for  me.  I'll  go  back  to  Wiscons', 
an'  rent  land  on  shares." 

Bert  was  a  younger-looking  man  than 
his  bachelor  companion;  perhaps  because 
his  face  was  clean-shaven  and  his  frame 
much  slighter.  He  was  a  silent,  moody 
young  fellow,  hard  to  get  along  with, 
though  of  great  good  heart.  Anson  Wood 
succeeded  in  winning  and  holding  his 
love  even  through  the  trials  of  masculine 
housekeeping.  As  Bert  kept  on  with  the 
dinner,  he  went  often  to  the  little  window 
facing  the  east  and  looked  out,  each  time 
thawing  a  hole  in  the  frost  on  the  window- 
panes. 

The  wind  was  rising  again,  and  the 
night  promised  to  be  wild,  as  the  two 
preceding  nights  had  been.  As  he  moved 
back  and  forth  setting  out  their  scanty 
meal,  he  was  thinking  of  the  old  life  back 
in  Wisconsin  in  the  deeps  of  the  little 
coulee;  of  the  sleigh-rides  with  the  boys 
and  girls;  of  the  Christmas  doings;  of 
the  damp,  thick-falling  snow  among  the 
pines,  where  the  wind  had  no  terrors;  of 
musical  bells  on  swift  horses  in  the  fra- 


Hittle  Worsfc. 


grant  deeps,  where  the  snowflakes  fell  like 
caresses  through  the  tossing  branches  of 
the  trees. 

By  the  side  of  such  a  life  the  plain, 
with  its  sliding  snow  and  ferocious  wind, 
was  appalling — a  treeless  expanse  and  a 
racing-ground  for  snow  and  wind.  The 
man's  mood  grew  darker  while  he  mused. 
He  served  the  meal  on  the  rude  box  which 
took  the  place  of  table,  and  still  his  com 
panion  did  not  come.  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  and 
yet  there  was  no  sign  of  the  sturdy  figure 
of  Anson. 

The  house  of  the  poor  Norwegian  was 
about  two  miles  away,  and  out  of  sight, 
being  built  in  a  gully;  but  now  the  eye 
could  distinguish  a  house  only  when  less 
than  a  mile  away.  A  man  could  not  at 
times  be  seen  at  a  distance  of  ten  rods, 
though  occasional  lulls  in  the  wind  per 
mitted  Bert  to  see  nearly  to  the  "  First 
Moccasin." 

"He  may  be  in  the  swale,"  muttered 
the  watcher  as  he  stood  with  his  eye  to 
the  loop-hole.  But  the  next  time  he 


1ber  parents. 


looked  the  plain  was  as  wild  and  lone  as 
before,  save  under  the  rising  blast  the 
snow  was  beginning  to  ramp  and  race 
across  the  level  sod  till  it  looked  at  times 
like  a  sea  running  white  with  foam  and 
misty  with  spray. 

At  two  o'clock  he  said :  "  Well,  I  s'pose 
Ans  has  concluded  to  stay  over  there  to 
dinner,  though  what  the  Norsk  can  offer 
as  inducement  I  swear  I  don't  know. 
I'll  eat,  anyhow;  he  can  have  what's  left." 

He  sat  down  to  his  lonely  meal,  and  ate 
slowly,  getting  up  two  or  three  times  from 
his  candle-box  in  a  growing  anxiety  for 
Ans,  using  the  heated  poker  now  to  clear 
a  spot  on  the  pane.  He  expressed  his 
growing  apprehension,  manlike,  by  get 
ting  angry. 

"  I  don't  see  what  the  darn  fool  means 
by  stayin'  so  late.  It'll  be  dark  by  four 
o'clock,  er  jest  as  soon  as  that  cloud  over 
there  strikes  us.  You  couldn't  beat  sense 
into  some  men's  heads  with  a  club." 

He  had  eaten  his  dinner  now,  and  had 
taken  to  pacing  up  and  down  the  little 
room,  which  was  exactly  six  paces  long 


Xittle  morsfe. 


and  three  wide,  and  just  high  enough 
to  permit  Anson  to  walk  erect  in  the 
highest  part. 

"Nice  fix  to  leave  a  man  in,  ain't  it? 
All  alone  here,  an'  a  blizzard  comin'  on! 
If  I  ever  git  out  o'  this  country  alive,  I'll 
bet  I'll  know  enough  not  to  come  back," 
he  broke  out,  stamping  his  foot  in  a  rage. 
"  I  don't  see  what  he  means  by  it.  If  he's 
caught  in  that  blow,  his  life  ain't  worth 
a  cent." 


CHAPTER  II. 

HER  FIRST  TRIP  IN"   A  BLIZZARD. 


T  half-past  two  the  feelings  of 
the  silent  watcher  began  to 
change.  He  thought  more 
about  his  partner  out  there  in 
the  rising  wind  and  th ickening  snow.  The 
blast  roared  round  the  little  cabin  with  a 
deep,  menacing,  rising  moan,  and  laid  to 
the  stove-pipe  a  resounding  lip,  wailing 
and  shouting  weirdly.  Bert's  nervous 
walk  quickened,  and  he  looked  so  often 
through  the  pane  that  the  frost  had  not 
time  to  close  up. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  blinding,  sweep 
ing  snow,  not  ten  rods  distant,  the  burly 
form  of  Anson  burst,  head  down,  blindly 
staggering  forward  into  the  teeth  of  the 
tempest.  He  walked  like  a  man  whose 
strength  was  almost  gone,  and  he  carried 
a  large  bundle  in  his  arms. 
2  9 


10  B  Xfttle  IKorsfe. 

Gearhart  flung  the  door  open,  and 
called  in  a  cheery  voice  to  guide  the 
struggling  man  to  the  house.  He  knew 
what  it  was  to  face  such  a  wind. 

"Here  ye  are,  oP  man!  Right  this 
way!  Keep  y'r  head  down!" 

Then,  seeing  that  Anson  hardly  made 
headway  against  the  terrible  blast,  he 
rushed  out,  bare-headed  as  he  was,  and 
caught  and  hurried  him  in  and  shut  the 
door. 

Reeling  blindly,  his  breath  roaring 
like  a  furnace,  his  eyebrows  hung  with 
icicles,  his  face  masked  with  crusted 
snow,  Anson  staggered  in,  crying  hoarsely, 
"Take  her!"  then  slid  to  the  floor,  where 
he  lay  panting  for  breath. 

Bert  caught  the  bundle  from  his  arms. 
A  wailing,  half-smothered  cry  came  from 
it. 

"What  is  it,  Ans?"  he  asked. 

"A  kid;  warm  it,"  said  the  giant,  try 
ing  with  his  numbed  fingers  to  undo  the 
shawl  which  wrapped  the  bundle.  Bert 
hurriedly  unwound  the  shawl,  and  a 
frightened  child,  blue -eyed  and  flaxen- 


11 


haired — flossy  as  unfrosted  corn-silk — • 
was  disclosed  like  a  nubbin  of  corn  after 
the  husks  are  stripped  off. 

"Why,  it's  little  Flaxen  Hair!  Wha' 
d'ye  bring  her  over  for?" 

"'Sh!"  said  Anson  hoarsely.  "Mind 
how  y'  git  her  warm!  Don't  y'  see  she's 
froze?" 

The  little  creature  was  about  five,  or 
possibly  six  years  old,  scantily  clad,  but 
neat  and  pretty.  As  her  feet  began  to  get 
warm  before  the  fire,  she  wailed  with 
pain,  which  Bert  tried  to  stop  by  rub 
bing. 

"  Put  her  hands  in  y'r  hair,  hold  her 
feet  in  y'r  hands — don't  rub  'em,"  com 
manded  Ans,  who  was  stripping  the  ice 
from  his  eyelashes  and  from  his  matted 
beard,  which  lay  like  a  shield  upon  his 
breast.  "  Stir  up  the  fire ;  give  her  some 
hot  coffee  an'  some  feed.  She  hain't  had 
anything  to  eat." 

Bert  tried  to  do  all  these  things  at  once, 
and  could  not,  but  managed  finally  to  get 
the  child  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  to  allay  her  fears.  Ans  began 


12  a  Xittlc 


to  recover  from  his  horrible  journey  and 
was  able  to  speak,  though  his  lungs  were 
still  painful. 

"  01'  man,"  he  said  solemnly  and  ten 
derly,  "  I  came  jest  as  near  stayin'  in  that 
last  gully  down  there  as  a  man  could  an' 
not.  The  snow  was  up  to  my  armpits, 
an'  let  me  down  wherever  the  weeds  was. 
I  had  to  waller;  if  it  hadn't  be'n  for  her, 
I  guess  I'd  'a'  give  up  ;  but  I  jest  grit  m' 
teeth  an'  pulled  through.  There,  guess 
y'  hadn't  better  let  her  have  any  more. 
I  guess  she'll  go  to  sleep  now  she's  fed  an' 
warmed.  Jest  le'  me  take  her  now,  oP 
man." 

"No:  you  git  rested  up." 

"  See  here,  it'll  rest  me  to  hold  that  lit 
tle  chap.  I'm  all  right.  My  hands  is 
frosted  some,  an'  my  ears,  that's  all,  but  my 
breath  is  gittin'  back.  Come  on,  now," 
he  pleaded. 

Bert  surrendered  the  child,  who  looked 
up  into  the  bearded  face  of  the  rough  fel 
low,  then  rested  her  head  on  his  breast, 
and  went  to  sleep  at  last.  It  made  his 
heart  thrill  as  he  felt  her  little  head 


a  JBlf3ar&.  is 


against  his  breast.  He  never  had  held  a 
child  in  his  arms  before. 

"  Say,  Bert,  reckon  I'm  a  purty  fair  pic 
ture  of  a  fam'ly  man,  now,  eh?  Throw  in 
a  couple  o'  twists  more  o'  hay " 

Bert  stirred  up  the  fire. 

"  Well,  now  the  little  one  is  off,  what's 
up  over  to  the  Norsk's?  Wha'  d'ye  bring 
the  child  for?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Because  she  was  the  only  livin'  soul  in 
the  shanty." 

"  What?"     His  face  was  set  in  horror. 

"Fact." 

"Where's  the  Norsk?" 

"  I  don't  know.  On  the  prairie  some 
where." 

"An'  the  mother?" 

"  She's "  Here  the  little  one  stirred 

slightly  as  he  leaned  forward,  and  Ans 
said,  with  a  wink,  "She's  asleep."  He 
winked  significantly,  and  Bert  understood 
what  the  sleep  was.  "  Be  a  little  careful 
what  y'  say — jes'  now;  the  little  rat  is 
listenin'.  Jest  say  relative  when  y'  mean 
her — the  woman,  y'  know." 

"Yes,    sir,"  he   resumed   after   a  mo- 


14  a  xtttle  1Kor8fe, 

ment ;  "  I  was  scart  when  I  saw  that 
house — when  I  knocked,  an'  no  one 
stirred  'r  come  to  the  door.  They  wasn't 
a  track  around,  an'  the  barn  an'  house 
was  all  drifted  up.  I  pushed  the  door 
open;  it  was  cold  as  a  barn,  an'  dark.  I 
couldn't  see  anythin'  f'r  a  minute,  but  I 
heard  a  sound  o'  cryin'  from  the  bed  that 
made  my  hair  stand  up.  I  rushed  over 
there,  an'  there  lay  the  mother  on  the 
bed,  with  nothin'  on  but  some  kind  of  a 
night-dress,  an'  everythin' — dress,  shawl, 
an'  all — piled  on  an'  around  that  blessed 
child." 

"  She  was  sleepin'?" 

"  Like  a  stone.  I  couldn't  believe  it  at 
first.  I  raved  around  there,  split  up  a 
chair  an'  the  shelves,  an'  made  a  fire. 
Then  I  started  to  rub  the  woman's  hands 
an'  feet,  but  she  was  cold  an'  hard  as  iron." 
Bert  shuddered  in  sympathy.  "  Then  I 
took  the  child  up  an'  rubbed  her ;  tried 
to  find  somethin'  f'r  her  to  eat — not  a 
blessed  thing  in  that  house!  Finally  I 
thought  I  better  bolt  f'r  home " 

"  Lucky    you    did.     Hear   that   wind ! 


15 


Great  heavens!  We  are  in  for  another 
two-days'  blow  of  it.  That  woman,  of 
course,  stripped  herself  to  save  the  child." 

"Yes:  she  did." 

"Jes'  like  a  woman!  Why  didn't  she 
rip  down  the  shelf  an'  split  up  the  chairs 
for  fuel,  or  keep  walkin'  up  an'  down 
the  room?" 

"  Now,  there  it  is !  She  had  burnt  up 
a  lot  o'  stuff,  then  took  to  bed  with  the 
child.  She  rolled  her  up  in  all  the  quilts 
an'  shawls  an'  dresses  they  was  in  the 
house ;  then  laid  down  by  the  side  of  her, 
an'  put  her  arm  over  her — an'  froze — jes' 
like  a  mother — no  judgment!" 

"Well,  lay  her  down  now,  an'  eat 
somethin'  y'rself,  while  I  go  out  an'  look 
after  the  chores.  Lord!  it  makes  me 
crawl  to  think  of  that  woman  layin'  there 
in  the  shanty  all  alone!"  he  turned  and 
said  in  a  peculiar  hesitating  voice.  He 
shivered  a  little  as  he  spoke.  "  Say,  did 
y'  shut  the  door?" 

"Yes:  an'  it  shuts  hard.  The  wind 
n'r  wolves  can't  open  it." 

"  That's  good.     I  couldn't  sleep  nights 


16  a  Xittle 


if  I  thought  the  coyotes  could  get  in." 
Bert's  imagination  seized  upon  that  lonely 
cabin  and  the  figure  lying  cold  as  iron 
upon  the  bed.  It  appealed  to  him  more 
than  to  Anson. 

By  four  o'clock  it  was  dark,  and  the 
lamp  was  lighted  when  Bert  came  in, 
bringing  an  immense  load  of  hay-twists. 
The  ferocious  wind,  as  if  exulting  in  its 
undisputed  sway  over  the  plain,  raved  in 
ceaseless  fury  around  the  cabin,  and  lashed 
the  roof  with  a  thousand  stinging  streams 
of  snow.  The  tiny  shanty  did  not  rock  ; 
it  shuddered  as  if  with  fright.  The  drifts 
rose  higher  on  the  windows,  and  here  and 
there  through  some  unseen  crevice  the 
snow,  fine  as  bolted  flour,  found  its  way 
like  oil,  seeming  to  penetrate  the  solid 
boards;  and  to  the  stove-pipe  the  storm 
still  laid  hoarse  lip,  piping  incessantly, 
now  dolorously,  now  savagely,  now  high, 
now  low. 

"While  the  two  men  sat  above  the  fire 
that  night,  discussing  the  sad  case  of  the 
woman,  the  child  slept  heavily,  muttering 
and  sobbing  in  her  sleep. 


B  ;JBlf33arD.  17 


"  The  probabilities  are,"  said  Anson,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  way,  "  the  Norsk  took  his 
oxen  an'  started  f  'r  Summit  f  'r  provisions, 
an'  got  caught  in  this  blizzard  an'  froze 
to  death  somewhere — got  lost  in  some 
gully,  probably." 

"But  why  didn't  he  come  an'  tell  us 
to  look  after  his  fam'ly?" 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  he  was  afraid  to  trust 
us.  I  don't  wonder,  as  I  remember  the 
treatment  their  women  git  from  the 
Yankees.  We  look  a  good  'eal  worse  than 
we  are,  besides;  an'  then  the  poor  cuss 
couldn't  talk  to  us,  anyhow,  an'  he's  be'n 
shy  ever  since  he  came,  in  October." 

After  a  long  silence,  in  which  Gearheart 
went  over  and  studied  the  face  of  the 
sleeper,  Anson  said:  "Well,  if  he's  dead, 
an'  the  woman's  dead  too,  we've  got  to 
look  after  this  child  till  some  relative 
turns  up.  An'  that  woman's  got  to  be 
buried." 

"All  right.  What's  got  to  be  done 
had  better  be  done  right  off.  We've  only 
one  bed,  Ans,  an'  a  cradle  hasn't  ap 
peared  necessary  before.  How  about  the 


18  B  Xittle 


sleepin'  to-night?  If  you're  goin'  into 
the  orphan-asylum  business,  you'll  have 
to  open  up  correspondence  with  a  furni 
ture  store." 

Ans  reddened  a  little.  "  It  ain't  mine 
any  more'n  yours.  We're  pardners  in 
this  job." 

"  No  :  I  guess  not.  You  look  more  like 
a  dad,  an'  I  guess  I'll  shift  the  responsi 
bility  of  this  thing  off  onto  you.  I'll 
bunk  here  on  the  floor,  an'  you  take  the 
child  an'  occupy  the  bed." 

"Well,  all  right,"  answered  Anson,  go 
ing  over  in  his  turn  and  looking  down  at 
the  white  face  and  tow-coloured  hair  of 
the  little  stranger.  "But  say,  we  ain't 
got  no  night-clothes  f'r  the  little  chap. 
What  '11  we  do?  Put  her  to  sleep  jes'  as 
she  is?" 

"I  reckon  we'll  have  to  to-night. 
Maybe  you'll  find  some  more  clothes  over 
to  the  shanty." 

"  Say,  Bert,"  said  Ans  later. 

"Well?" 

"  It's  too  dam  cold  f'r  you  to  sleep  on 
the  floor  there.  You  git  in  here  on  the 


B  3BU33arD,  19 


back  side,  an'  I'll  take  the  child  on  the 
front.  She'd  be  smashed  flatter'n  a  pan 
cake  if  she  was  in  the  middle.  She  ain't 
bigger'n  a  pint  o'  cider,  anyway." 

"No,  ol'  man.  I'll  lay  here  on  the 
floor,  an*  kind  o'  heave  a  twist  in  once  in 
a  while.  It's  goin'  to  be  cold  enough  to 
freeze  the  tail  off  a  brass  bull  by  day 
light." 

Ans  bashfully  crept  in  beside  the  sleep 
ing  child,  taking  care  not  to  waken  her, 
and  lay  there  thinking  of  his  new  re 
sponsibility.  At  every  shiver  of  the 
cowering  cabin  and  rising  shriek  of  the 
wind,  his  heart  went  out  in  love  toward 
the  helpless  little  creature  whose  dead 
mother  lay  in  the  cold  and  deserted  shanty, 
and  whose  father  was  wandering  perhaps 
breathless  and  despairing  on  the  plain, 
or  lying  buried  in  the  snow  in  some  deep 
ravine  beside  his  patient  oxen.  He 
tucked  the  clothing  in  carefully  about 
the  child,  felt  to  see  if  her  little  feet  were 
cold,  and  covered  her  head  with  her 
shawl,  patting  her  lightly  with  his  great 
paw. 


20  B  Xittle  IKorsfe. 

"Say,  Bert!" 

"Well,  Ans,  what  now?" 

"  If  this  little  chap  should  wake  up  an' 
cry  f ' r  its  mother,  what  in  thunder  would 
I  do?" 

"  Give  it  up,  ol'  boy,"  was  the  reply 
from  the  depths  of  the  buffalo-robes  be 
fore  the  fire.  "  Pat  her  on  the  back,  an' 
tell  her  not  to  cry,  or  somethin'  like 
that." 

"  But  she  can't  tell  what  I  say." 

"  Oh,  she'll  understand  if  y'  kind  o' 
chuckle  an'  gurgle  like  a  fam'ly  man." 
But  the  little  one  slept  on,  and  when, 
about  midnight,  Bert  got  up  to  feed  the 
fire,  he  left  the  stove  door  open  to  give 
light,  and  went  softly  over  to  the  sleepers. 
Ans  was  sleeping  with  the  little  form  close 
to  his  breast,  and  the  poor,  troubled  face 
safe  under  his  shaggy  beard. 

And  all  night  long  the  blasting  wind, 
sweeping  the  sea  of  icy  sands,  hissed  and 
howled  round  the  little  sod  cabin  like 
surf  beating  on  a  half -sunken  rock.  The 
wind  and  the  snow  and  the  darkness  pos- 


21  3Blf33ar&.  21 


sessed  the  plain;  and  Cold  (whose  other 
name  is  Death)  was  king  of  the  horrible 
carnival.  It  seemed  as  though  morning 
and  sunlight  could  not  come  again,  so 
absolute  was  the  sway  of  night  and  death. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE   BUEIAL   OF   HER   DEAD   MOTHER. 


HEN  Anson  woke  the  next  morn 
ing,  he  found  the  great  flower- 
like  eyes  of  the  little  waif 
staring  straight  into  his  face 
with  a  surprise  too  great  for  words  or 
cries.  She  stared  steadily  and  solemnly 
into  his  open  eyes  for  a  while,  and  when 
he  smiled  she  smiled  back ;  but  when  he 
lifted  his  large  hand  and  tried  to  brush 
her  hair  she  grew  frightened,  pushing  her 
little  fists  against  him,  and  began  to  cry 
"Mor!  Mor  Kom!" 

This  roused  Gearheart,  who  said : 
"  Well,  Ans,  what  are  y'  goin'  to  do  with 
that  child?  This  is  your  mornin'  to  git 
breakfast.  Come,  roll  out.  I've  got  the 
fire  goin'  good.  I  can't  let  y'  off;  it'll 
break  up  our  system." 

Anson    rolled   out    of    the   bunk   and 


ffiurial.  23 


dressed  hurriedly  in  the  cold  room.  The 
only  sound  was  the  roar  of  the  stove  de 
vouring  the  hay-twist.  Anson  danced 
about. 

"Thunder  an'  black  cats,  ain't  it  cold! 
The  wind  has  died  down,  or  we'd  be  froze 
stiffer'n  a  wedge.  It  was  mighty  good 
in  you,  ol'  man,  to  keep  the  stove  goin' 
durin'  the  night.  The  child  has  opened 
her  eyes  brighter 'n  a  dollar,  but  I  tell 
you  I  don't  like  to  let  her  know  what's 
happened  to  her  relatives." 

The  little  one  began  to  wail  in  a  fright 
ened  way,  being  alone  in  the  dim  corner. 

"There  she  goes  now;  she's  wan  tin' to 
go  home!  That's  what  she's  askin',  jes' 
like's  not.  Say,  Bert,  what  the  devil  can 
I  do?" 

"  Talk  to  her,  Ans;  chuckle  to  her." 

"  Talk !  She'll  think  I'm  threatenin'  to 
knock  her  head  oft3,  or  somethin'.  There 
there,  don't  ee  cry!  We'll  go  see  papa 
soon. — Confound  it,  man,  I  can't  go  on 
with  this  thing!  There,  there!  See, 
child,  we're  goin'  to  have  some  nice  hot 
pancakes  now;  goin'  to  have  breakfast 


24  21  Xfttle 


now.  See,  ol'  pap's  goin'  to  fry  some 
pancakes.  Whoop  —  see!"  He  took  down 
the  saucepan,  and  flourished  it  in  order 
to  make  his  meaning  plainer.  Bert 
laughed. 

"  That's  as  bad  as  your  fist.  Put  that 
down,  Ans.  You'll  scare  the  young  one 
into  a  fit;  you  ain't  built  f  r  a  jumpin'- 
jack." 

The  child  did  indeed  set  up  a  louder 
and  more  distracting  yell.  Getting  des 
perate,  Anson  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and, 
despite  her  struggles,  began  tossing  her  on 
his  shoulder.  The  child  understood  him 
and  ceased  to  cry,  especially  as  Gearheart 
began  to  set  the  table,  making  a  pleasant 
clatter,  whistling  the  while. 

The  glorious  light  of  the  morning  made 
its  way  only  dimly  through  the  thickly 
frosted  window-panes  ;  the  boards  snapped 
in  the  horrible  cold  ;  out  in  the  barn  the 
cattle  were  bellowing  and  kicking  with 
pain. 

<k  Do  you  know,"  said  Bert,  impressively, 
"  I  couldn't  keep  that  woman  out  o'  my 
mind.  I  could  see  her  layin'  there  with- 


Burial.  25 


out  any  quilts  on  her,  an'  the  mice  a-run- 
nin'  over  her.  God!  it's  tough,  this  bein' 
alone  on  a  prairie  on  such  a  night." 

"  I  knew  I'd  feel  so,  an'  I  jest  naturally 
covered  her  up  an'  tucked  the  covers  in, 
the  child  a-lookin'  on.  I  thought  she'd 
feel  better,  seein'  her  ma  tucked  in  good 
an'  warm.  Poor  little  rat!" 

"Did  you  do  that,  ol'  man?" 

"  You  bet  I  did !  I  couldn't  have  slep' 
a  wink  if  I  hadn't." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  y'  tell  me,  so't  / 
could  sleep?" 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  think  of  it  that 
way,  not  havin'  seen  her." 

The  child  now  consented  to  sit  in  one 
of  the  chairs  and  put  her  feet  down  by 
the  stove.  She  wept  silently  now,  with 
that  infrequent,  indrawn  sob,  more  touch 
ing  than  wails.  She  felt  that  these  stran 
gers  were  her  friends,  but  she  wanted  her 
mother.  She  ate  well,  and  soon  grew 
more  resigned.  She  looked  first  at  one 
and  then  at  the  other  of  the  men  as  they 
talked,  trying  to  understand  their  strange 
language.  Then  she  fell  to  watching  a 


Xittte  IKorsfc. 


mouse  that  stole  out  from  behind  the  flour- 
barrels,  snatching  a  crumb  occasionally 
and  darting  back,  and  laughed  gleefully 
once,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Now,  the  first  thing  after  the  chores, 
Ans,  is  that  woman  over  there.  Of  course 
it's  out  o'  the  question  buryin'  her,  but 
we'd  better  go  over  an'  git  what  things 
there  is  left  o'  the  girl's,  an'  fasten  up 
the  shanty  to  keep  the  wolves  out." 

"  But  then " 

"What?" 

"  The  mice.     You  can't  shut  them  out. " 

"  That's  so.  I  never  thought  o'  that. 
We've  got  to  make  a  box,  I  guess;  but 
it's  goin'  to  be  an  awful  job  for  me,  Ans, 
to  git  her  into  it.  I  thought  I  wouldn't 
have  to  touch  her." 

"  Le'  me  go;  I've  seen  her  once  an' you 
hain't.  I'd  just  as  soon." 

"  Heaven  an'  earth !  what  could  I  do 
with  the  babe?  She'd  howl  like  a  coy 
ote,  an'  drive  me  plumb  wild.  No: 
you're  elected  to  take  care  o'  the  child. 
I  ain't  worth  a  picayune  at  it.  Besides, 
you  had  your  share  yesterday." 


Cbe  Burial.  27 


And  so,  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  of 
that  bitterly  cold  morning,  Gearheart 
crunched  away  over  the  spotless  snow, 
which  burned  under  his  feet — a  land  mock 
ing,  glorious,  pitiless.  Far  off  some  slen 
der  columns  of  smoke  told  of  two  or  three 
hearth-fires,  but  mainly  the  plain  was  level 
and  lifeless  as  the  Polar  Ocean,  appallingly 
silent,  no  cry  or  stir  in  the  whole  expanse, 
no  tree  to  creak  nor  bell  to  ring. 

It  required  strong  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  young  man  to  open  the  door  of  the 
cottage,  and  he  stood  for  some  time  with 
his  hand  on  the  latch,  looking  about. 
There  was  perfect  silence  without  and 
within,  no  trace  of  feet  or  hands  any 
where.  All  was  as  peaceful  and  unbroken 
as  a  sepulchre. 

Finally,  as  if  angry  with  himself,  Gear- 
heart  shook  himself  and  pushed  open  the 
door,  letting  the  morning  sun  stream  in. 
It  lighted  the  bare  little  room  and  fell  on 
the  frozen  face  and  rigid,  half-open  eyes 
of  the  dead  woman  with  a  strong,  white 
glare.  The  thin  face  and  worn,  large- 
jointed  hands  lying  outside  the  quilt  told 


28  B  Xittle 


of  the  hardships  which  had  been  the  lot 
of  the  sleeper.  Her  clothing  was  clean 
and  finer  than  one  would  expect  to  see. 

Gearheart  stood  looking  at  her  for  a 
long  time,  the  door  still  open,  for  he  felt 
re-enforced  in  some  way  by  the  sun.  If 
any  one  had  come  suddenly  and  closed  the 
door  on  him  and  the  white  figure  there, 
he  would  have  cried  out  and  struggled 
like  a  madman  to  escape,  such  was  his 
unreasoning  fear  of  the  dead. 

At  length,  with  a  long  breath,  he  backed 
out  and  closed  the  door.  Going  to  the 
barn,  he  found  a  cow  standing  at  an  empty 
manger,  and  some  hens  and  pigs  frozen  in 
the  hay.  Looking  about  for  some  boards 
to  make  a  coffin,  he  came  upon  a  long  box 
in  which  a  reaper  had  been  packed,  and 
this  he  proceeded  to  nail  together  firmly, 
and  to  line  with  pieces  of  an  old  stove 
pipe  at  such  places  as  he  thought  the 
mice  would  try  to  enter. 

When  it  was  all  prepared,  he  carried 
the  box  to  the  house  and  managed  to  lay 
it  down  beside  the  bed;  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  touch  the  body.  He 


Cbe  Burial,  29 


went  out  to  see  if  some  one  were  not  com 
ing.  The  sound  of  a  human  voice  would 
have  relieved  him  at  once,  and  he  could 
have  gone  on  without  hesitation.  But 
there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  no  one  was 
likely  to  be;  so  he  returned,  and  sum 
moning  all  his  resolution,  took  one  of  the 
quilts  from  the  bed  and  placed  it  in  the 
bottom  of  the  box.  Then  he  removed  the 
pillow  from  beneath  the  head  of  the  dead 
woman  and  placed  that  in  the  box.  Then 
he  paused,  the  cold  moisture  breaking  out 
on  his  face. 

Like  all  young  persons  born  far  from 
war,  and  having  no  knowledge  of  death 
even  in  its  quiet  forms,  he  had  the 
most  powerful  organic  repugnance  to 
ward  a  corpse.  He  kept  his  eye  on  it  as 
though  it  were  a  sleeping  horror,  likely 
at  a  sudden  sound  to  rise  and  walk.  More 
than  this,  there  had  always  been  some 
thing  peculiarly  sacred  in  the  form  of  a 
woman,  and  in  his  calmer  moments  the 
dead  mother  appealed  to  him  with  irre 
sistible  power. 

At  last,  with  a  sort  of  moan  through 


30  &  xittle 


his  set  teeth,  he  approached  the  bed  and 
threw  the  sheet  over  the  figure,  holding 
it  as  in  a  sling  ;  then,  by  a  mighty  effort, 
he  swung  it  stiffly  off  the  bed  into  the 
box. 

He  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly 
spread  the  remaining  quilts  over  the  dead 
face.  The  box  was  wide  enough  to  re 
ceive  the  stiff,  curved  right  arm,  and  he 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  nail  the  cover 
on,  which  he  did  in  feverish  haste.  Then 
he  rose,  grasped  his  tools,  rushed  outside, 
slammed  the  door,  and  set  off  in  great 
speed  across  the  snow,  pushed  on  by  an 
indescribable  horror. 

As  he  neared  home,  his  fresh  young 
blood  asserted  itself  more  and  more;  but 
when  he  entered  the  cabin  he  was  still 
trembling,  and  dropped  into  a  chair  like 
a  man  out  of  breath.  At  sight  of  the 
ruddy  face  of  Anson,  and  with  the  aid  of 
the  heat  and  light  of  the  familiar  little 
room,  he  shook  off  part  of  his  horror. 

"Gi'  me  a  cup  o'  coffee,  Ans.  I'm 
kind  o'  chilly  an'  tired." 

Before  drinking  he  wiped  his  face  and 


Burial,  31 


washed  his  hands  again  and  again  at  the 
basin  in  the  corner,  as  though  there  were 
something  on  them  which  was  ineffably 
unclean.  The  little  one,  who  had  been 
weeping  again,  stared  at  him  with  two 
big  tears  drying  on  her  hollow  cheeks. 

"Well?"  interrogated  Anson. 

"  I  nailed  her  up  safe  enough  for  the 
present.  But  what're  we  goin'  to  do 
next?" 

"  I  can't  see  's  we  can  do  anythin'  as 
long  as  such  weather  as  this  lasts.  It 
ain't  safe  f'r  one  of  us  to  go  out  an'  leave 
the  other  alone.  Besides,  it's  thirty  be 
low  zero,  an'  no  road,  Moccasin's  full  of 
snow,  an'  another  wind  likely  to  rise  at 
any  time.  It's  mighty  tough  on  this  lit 
tle  one,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  As  soon 
as  it  moderates  a  little,  we'll  try  to  find 
a  woman  an'  a  preacher,  an'  bury  that — 
relative." 

"  The  only  woman  I  know  of  is  ol'  Mrs. 
Cap  Burdon,  down  on  the  Third  Mocca 
sin,  full  fifteen  miles  away." 


CHAPTER    IV. 


OR  nearly  two  weeks  they  wait 
ed,  while  the  wind  alternate 
ly  raved  and  whispered  over 
them  as  it  scurried  the  snow 
south  or  east,  or  shifted  to  the  south  in 
the  night,  bringing  "  the  north  end  of 
a  south  wind,"  the  most  intolerable  and 
cutting  of  winds.  Day  after  day  the  rest 
less  snow  sifted  or  leaped  across  the  waste 
of  glittering  crust;  day  after  day  the  sun 
shone  in  dazzling  splendor,  but  so  white 
and  cold  that  the  thermometer  still  kept 
down  among  the  thirties.  They  were  ab 
solutely  alone  on  the  plain,  except  that 
now  and  then  a  desperate  wolf  or  inquisi 
tive  owl  came  by. 

These  were  long  days  for  the  settlers. 
They  would  have  been  longer  had  it  not 
been  for  little  Elga,  or  "  Flaxen,"  as  they 

32 


aflajen  BDopts  Bnecm.  33 

took  to  calling  her.  They  racked  their 
brains  to  amuse  her,  and  in  the  intervals 
of  tending  the  cattle  and  of  cooking,  or 
of  washing  dishes,  rummaged  through  all 
their  books  and  pictures,  taught  her  "  cat's 
cradle,"  played  "jack-straws"  with  her, 
and  with  all  their  resources  of  song  and 
pantomime  strove  to  fill  up  the  little  one's 
lonely  days,  happy  when  they  succeeded 
in  making  her  laugh. 

"That  settles  it!"  said  Bert  one  day, 
whanging  the  basin  back  into  the  empty 
flour-barrel. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Matter  is,  we've  reached  the  bottom 
o'  the  flour-barrel,  an'  it's  got  to  be  filled; 
no  two  ways  about  that.  We  can  get 
along  on  biscuit  an'  pancakes  in  place  o' 
meat,  but  we  can't  put  anythin'  in  the 
place  o'  bread.  If  it  looks  favorable  to 
morrow,  we've  got  to  make  a  break  for 
Summit  an'  see  if  we  can't  stock  up." 

Early  the  next  morning  they  brought 
out  the  shivering  team  and  piled  into  the 
box  all  the  quilts  and  robes  they  had,  and 
bundling  little  Flaxen  in,  started  across 


34  B  xtttle  IKorsfe. 

the  trackless  plain  toward  the  low  line  of 
hills  to  the  east,  twenty-five  or  thirty 
miles.  From  four  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  till  nearly  noon  they  toiled  across  the 
sod,  now  ploughing  through  the  deep  snow 
where  the  unburned  grass  had  held  it,  now 
scraping  across  the  bare,  burned  earth, 
now  wandering  up  or  down  the  swales, 
seeking  the  shallowest  places,  now  shovel 
ling  a  pathway  through. 

The  sun  rose  unobscured  as  usual,  and 
shone  down  with  unusual  warmth,  which 
afforded  the  men  the  satisfaction  of  see 
ing  little  Flaxen  warm  and  merry.  She 
chattered  away  in  her  own  tongue,  and 
clapped  her  little  hands  in  glee  at  sight 
of  the  snowbirds  running  and  fluttering 
about.  As  they  approached  the  low  hills 
the  swales  got  deeper  and  more  difficult 
to  cross,  but  about  eleven  o'clock  they 
came  to  Burdon's  Eanch,  a  sort  of  half 
way  haven  between  their  own  claim  and 
Summit,  the  end  of  the  railway. 

Captain  Burdon  was  away,  but  Mrs. 
Burdon,  a  big,  slatternly  Missourian,  with 
all  the  kindliness  of  a  universal  mother  in 


3flajcn  B&opts  Bnson,  35 

her  swarthy  face  and  flaccid  bosom,  ush 
ered  them  into  the  cave-like  dwelling  set 
in  the  sunny  side  of  Water  Moccasin. 

"  Set  down,  set  right  down.  Young 
uns,  git  out  some  o'  them  cheers  an'  let 
the  strangers  set.  Purty  tol'able  tough 
weather?  A  feller  don't  git  out  much 
such  weather  as  this  'ere  'thout  he's  jes' 
naturally  'bleeged  to.  Suse,  heave  in  an 
other  twist,  an'  help  the  little  un  to  take 
off  her  shawl." 

After  Mrs.  Burden's  little  flurry  of 
hospitality  was  over,  Anson  found  time 
to  tell  briefly  the  history  of  the  child. 

"  Heavens  to  Betsey !  I  wan'  to  know !" 
she  cried,  her  fat  hands  on  her  knees  and 
her  eyes  bulging.  "  Wai !  wal !  I  declare, 
it  beats  the  Dutch !  So  that  woman  jest 
frizzed  right  burside  the  babe!  Wal,  I 
never!  An'  the  ol'  man  he  ain't  showed 
up?  Wal,  now,  he  ain't  likely  to.  I 
reckon  I  saw  that  Norsk  go  by  here  that 
very  day,  an'  I  says  to  Cap'n,  says  I,  4If 
that  feller  don't  reach  home  inside  an 
hour,  he'll  go  through  heaven  a-gittin' 
home,'  says  I  to  the  Cap'n." 


36  B  Xittle  IRorsfe, 

"Well,  now,"  said  Anson,  stopping  the 
old  woman's  garrulous  flow,  "  I've  got 
to  be  off  f  r  Summit,  but  I  wish  you'd 
jest  look  after  this  little  one  here  till  we 
git  back.  It's  purty  hard  weather  f'r 
her  to  be  out,  an'  I  don't  think  she  ought 
to." 

"Yaas;  leave  her,  o'  course.  She'll 
enjoy  playin'  with  the  young  uns.  I 
reckon  y'  did  all  y'  could  for  that  woman. 
Y'  can't  burry  her  now;  the  ground's 
like  linkum-vity." 

But  as  Anson  turned  to  leave,  the  little 
creature  sprang  up  with  a  torrent  of  wild 
words,  catching  him  by  the  coat,  and 
pleading  strenuously  to  go  with  him. 
Her  accent  was  unmistakable. 

"You  wan'  to  go  with  Ans?"  he  in 
quired,  looking  down  into  the  little  tear 
ful  face  with  a  strange  stirring  in  his 
bachelor  heart.  "  I  believe  on  my  soul 
she  does." 

"Sure'sy're  born!"  replied  Mrs.  Bur- 
don.  "  She'd  rather  go  with  you  than  to 
stay  an'  fool  with  the  young  uns;  that's 
what  she's  try  in'  to  say." 


Bfcopts  Bnson.  37 


"Do  y'  wan'  to  go?"  asked  Ans  again, 
opening  his  arms.  She  sprang  toward 
him,  raising  her  eager  little  hands  as  high 
as  she  could,  and  when  he  lifted  her  she 
twined  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Poor  little  critter!  she  ain't  got  no 
pap  ner  mam  now,"  the  old  woman  ex 
plained  to  the  ring  of  children,  who  still 
stared  silently  at  the  stranger  almost  with 
out  moving. 

"Ain't  he  her  pa-a-p?"  drawled  one  of 
the  older  girls,  sticking  a  finger  at  Anson. 

"He  is  now,"  laughed  Ans,  and  that 
settled  the  question  over  which  he  had 
been  pondering  for  days.  It  meant  that 
as  long  as  she  wanted  to  stay  she  should 
be  his  Flaxen  and  he  would  be  her"  pap." 
"And  you  can  be  Uncle  Bert,  hey?"  he 
said  to  Bert. 

"  Good  enough,"  said  Bert. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FLAXEN   BECOMES   INDISPENSABLE  TO  THE 
TWO    OLD   BACHELORS. 

HEY  never  found  any  living 
relative,  and  only  late  in  the 
spring  was  the  fate  of  the  poor 
father  revealed.  He  and  his 
cattle  were  found  side  by  side  in  a  deep 
swale,  where  they  had  foundered  in  the 
night  and  tempest. 

As  for  little  Flaxen,  she  soon  recovered 
her  cheerfulness,  with  the  buoyancy  natu 
ral  to  childhood,  and  learned  to  prattle 
in  broken  English  very  fast.  She  devel 
oped  a  sturdy  self-reliance  that  was  sur 
prising  in  one  so  young,  and  long  before 
spring  came  was  indispensable  to  the  two 
"old  baches." 

"Now,  Bert,"  said  Ans  one  day,  "I 
don't  wan'  to  hear  you  talk  in  that  slip 
shod  way  any  longer  before  Flaxen.  You 

38 


tflajen  Becomes  ITnfcispensable,     39 

know  better;  you've  had  more  chance 
than  I  have — be'n  to  school  more.  They 
ain't  no  excuse  for  you,  not  an  ioty.  Now, 
I'm  goin'  to  say  to  her,  'Never  mind 
how  I  talk,  but  talk  like  Bert  does.' ' 

"  Oh,  say,  now,  look  here,  Ans,  I  can't 
stand  the  strain.  Suppose  she'd  hear  me 
swearin'  at  ol'  Barney  or  the  stove?" 

"  That's  jest  it.  You  ain't  goin'  to 
swear,"  decided  Anson;  and  after  that 
Bert  took  the  education  of  the  little  waif 
in  hand,  for  he  was  a  man  of  good  edu 
cation  ;  his  use  of  dialect  and  slang  sprang 
mainly  from  carelessness. 

But  all  the  little  fatherly  duties  and 
discipline  fell  to  Anson,  and  much  per 
plexed  he  often  got.  For  instance,  when 
he  bought  her  an  outfit  of  American 
clothing  at  the  store  they  were  strange 
to  her  and  to  him,  and  the  situation  was 
decidedly  embarrassing  when  they  came  to 
try  them. 

"  Now,  Flaxie,  I  guess  this  thing  goes 
on  this  side  before,  so's  you  can  button 
it.  If  it  went  on  so,  you  couldn't  reach 
around  to  button  it,  don't  you  see?  I  guess 


40  B  Xittle 


you'd  better  try  it  so.  An'  this  thing, 
I  judge,  is  a  shirt,  an'  goes  on  under  that 
other  thing,  which  I  reckon  is  called  a 
shimmy.  Say,  Bert,  shouldn't  you  call 
that  a  shirt?"  holding  up  a  garment. 

"W-e-1-1,  yes"  (after  a  close  scrutiny). 
"Yes:  I  should." 

"  And  this  a  shimmy?" 

"Well,  now,  you've  got  me,  Ans.  It 
seems  to  me  I've  heard  the  women  folks 
home  talk  about  shimmies,  but  they  were 
always  kind  o'  private  about  it,  so  I  don't 
think  I  can  help  you  out.  That  little 
thing  goes  underneath,  sure  enough." 

"All  right,  here  goes,  Flax;  if  it 
should  turn  out  to  be  hind  side  before, 
no  matter." 

Then  again  little  Flaxen  would  want  to 
wear  her  best  dress  on  week-days,  and  Ans 
was  unable  to  explain.  Here  again  Bert 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Git  her  one  dress  fer  ev'ry  day  in  the 
week,  an'  make  her  wear  'em  in  rotation. 
Hang  'em  up  an'  put  a  tag  on  each  one  — 
Sunday,  Monday,  an'  so  on." 

"Good  idea." 


3FIajen  JSecomee  ITnDispensable.      41 

And  it  was  done.  But  the  embarrass 
ments  of  attending  upon  the  child  soon 
passed  away ;  she  quickly  grew  independent 
of  such  help,  dressed  herself,  and  combed 
her  own  hair,  though  Anson  enjoyed  doing 
it  himself  when  he  could  find  time,  and 
she  helped  out  not  a  little  about  the  house. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  old  life, 
awakening  as  she  had  from  almost  deathly 
torpor  into  a  new  home — almost  a  new 
world — where  a  strange  language  was 
spoken,  where  no  woman  was,  and  where 
no  mention  of  her  mother,  father,  or  na 
tive  land  was  ever  made  before  her.  The 
little  waif  was  at  first  utterly  bewildered, 
then  reconciled,  and  by  the  time  spring 
came  over  the  prairie  was  almost  happy  in 
the  touching  way  of  a  child  deprived  of 
childish  things. 

Oh,  how  sweet  spring  seemed  to  those 
snow-weary  people!  Day  after  day  the 
sun  crept  higher  up  in  the  sky ;  day  after 
day  the  snow  gave  way  a  little  on  the 
swells,  and  streams  of  water  began  to 
trickle  down  under  the  huge  banks  of 
snow,  filling  the  ravines ;  and  then  at  last 

4 


43  B  Xittle 


came  a  day  when  a  strange,  warm  wind 
blew  from  the  northwest.  Soft  and  sweet 
and  sensuous  it  was,  as  if  it  swept  some 
tropic  bay  filled  with  a  thousand  isles  —  a 
wind  like  a  vast  warm  breath  blown  upon 
the  land.  Under  its  touch  the  snow  did 
not  melt;  it  vanished.  It  fled  in  a  single 
day  from  the  plain  to  the  gullies.  An 
other  day,  and  the  gullies  were  rivers. 

It  was  the  "chinook,"  which  old  Lam 
bert,  the  trapper  and  surveyor,  said  came 
from  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

The  second  morning  after  the  chinook 
began  to  blow,  Anson  sprang  to  his  feet 
from  his  bunk,  and  standing  erect  in  the 
early  morning  light,  yelled  :  "  Hear  that?" 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Bert. 

"There!  Hear  it?"  Anson  smiled,  hold 
ing  up  his  hand  joyfully  as  a  mellow 
"  Boom  —  boom  —  boom"  broke  through  the 
silent  air.  "  Prairie-chickens  !  Hurrah  ! 
Spring  has  come  !  That  breaks  the  back 
o'  winter  short  off." 

"Hurrah!  de  'pring  ees  come!"  cried 
little  Flaxen,  gleefully  clapping  her  hands 
in  imitation. 


fflajen  JSSecomes  1Tn5f6pen6able.     43 

No  man  can  know  what  a  warm  breeze 
and  the  note  of  a  bird  can  mean  to 
him  till  he  is  released,  as  these  men 
were  released,  from  the  bondage  of  a 
horrible  winter.  Perhaps  still  more  mov 
ing  was  the  thought  that  with  the  spring 
the  loneliness  of  the  prairie  would  be 
broken,  never  again  to  be  so  dread  and 
drear ;  for  with  the  coming  of  spring  came 
the  tide  of  land-seekers  pouring  in :  teams 
scurried  here  and  there  on  the  wide 
prairie,  carrying  surveyors,  land  agents, 
and  settlers.  At  Summit  trains  came 
rumbling  in  by  the  first  of  April,  empty 
ing  thousands  of  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren  upon  the  sod,  together  with  cattle, 
machinery,  and  household  articles,  to  lie 
there  roofed  only  by  the  blue  sky.  Sum 
mit,  from  being  a  half-buried  store  and 
a  blacksmith's  shop,  bloomed  out  into  a 
town  with  saloons,  lumber-yards,  hotels, 
and  restaurants;  the  sound  of  hammer 
and  anvil  was  incessant,  and  trains 
clanged  and  whistled  night  and  day. 

Day  after  day  the  settlers  got  their 
wagons  together  and  loaded  up,  and  then 


44  B  Xittte 


moved  down  the  slope  into  the  fair  valley 
of  the  sleepy  James.  Mrs.  Cap  Burdon 
did  a  rushing  business  as  a  hotel-keeper, 
while  Cap  sold  hay  and  oats  at  rates  which 
made  the  land-seekers  gasp. 

"  I'm  not  out  here  f'r  my  health,"  was 
all  the  explanation  he  ever  made. 

Soon  all  around  the  little  shanty  of 
Anson  and  Bert  other  shanties  were  built 
and  filled  with  young,  hopeful,  buoyant 
souls.  The  railway  surveyors  came 
through,  locating  a  town  about  three  and 
another  about  twelve  miles  away,  and 
straightway  the  bitter  rivalry  between 
Boomtown  and  Belleplain  began.  Belle- 
plain  being  their  town,  Bert  and  Anson 
swore  by  Belleplain,  and  correspondingly 
derided  the  claims  of  Boomtown. 

With  the  coming  of  spring  began  the 
fiercest  toil  of  the  pioneers  —  breaking 
the  sod,  building,  harvesting,  ploughing; 
then  the  winter  again,  though  not  so 
hard  to  bear;  then  the  same  round  of 
work  again.  So  the  land  was  settled,  the 
sod  was  turned  over;  sod  shanties  gave 
way  to  little  frame  houses;  the  tide  of 


3flajen  Becomes  ITnDfspensable.      45 

land-seekers  passed  on,  the  boom  hurst, 
but  the  real  workers,  like  Wood  and  Gear- 
heart,  went  patiently,  steadily  on,  found 
ing  a  great  State. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    QUESTION    OF    DKESS. 


NE  morning  eight  years  later 
Flaxen  left  the  home  of  Gear- 
heart  and  Wood  with  old  Doll 
and  the  buggy,  bound  for 
Belleplain  after  groceries  for  harvest. 
She  drove  with  a  dash,  her  hat  on  the 
back  of  her  head.  She  was  seemingly  in 
tent  on  getting  all  there  was  possible  out 
of  a  chew  of  kerosene  gum,  which  she  had 
resolved  to  throw  away  upon  entering 
town,  intending  to  get  a  new  supply. 

She  had  thriven  on  Western  air  and 
gum,  and  though  hardly  more  than  four 
teen  years  of  age,  her  bust  and  limbs 
revealed  the  grace  of  approaching  woman 
hood,  however  childish  her  short  dress 
and  braided  hair  might  still  show  her  to 
be.  Her  face  was  large  and  decidedly 
of  Scandinavian  type,  fair  in  spite  of 


B  (Sluestfon  of  Dress.  47 

wind  and  sun,  and  broad  at  the  cheek 
bones.  Her  eyes  were  as  blue  and  clear 
as  winter  ice. 

As  she  rode  along  she  sang  as  well  as 
she  could  without  neglecting  the  gum, 
sitting  at  one  end  of  the  seat  like  a  man, 
the  reins  held  carelessly  in  her  left  hand, 
notwithstanding  the  swift  gait  of  the 
horse,  who  always  knew  when  Flaxen  was 
driving.  She  met  a  friend  on  the  road, 
and  said,  "  Hello !"  pulling  up  her  horse 
with  one  strong  hand. 

"Can't  stop,"  she  explained;  "got  to 
go  over  to  the  city  to  get  some  groceries 
for  harvest.  Goin'  to  the  sociable  to 
morrow?" 

"  You  bet,"  replied  the  friend.     "  You?" 

"I  d'know;  mebbe,  if  the  boys'll  go. 
Ta-ta;  see  ye  later."  And  away  she  spun. 

Belleplain  had  not  thriven,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  it  had  had  a  rise  and  fall; 
and  as  the  rise  had  been  considerable,  so 
the  fall  was  something  worth  chronicling. 
It  was  now  a  collection  of  wooden  build 
ings,  mostly  empty,  graying  under  the 
storms  and  suns  of  pitiless  winters  and 


48  a  Xittle 


summers,  and  now,  just  in  mid-summer, 
surrounded  by  splendid  troops  and  pha 
lanxes  of  gorgeous  sunflowers,  whose  brown 
crowns,  gold-dusted,  looked  ever  toward 
the  sun  as  it  swung  through  the  wide  arch 
of  cloudless  sky.  The  signs  of  the  empty 
buildings  still  remained,  and  one  might 
still  read  the  melancholy  decline  from 
splendours  of  the  past  in  "emporiums," 
"palace  drug  stores,"  and  "mansion- 
houses." 

As  Flaxen  would  have  said,  "  Belle- 
plain's  boom  had  bu'sted."  Her  glory 
had  gone  with  the  0.,  B.  and  Q.,  which 
formed  the  junction  at  Boomtown  and  left 
the  luckless  citizens  of  Belleplain  "  high 
and  dry"  on  the  prairie,  with  nothing  but 
a  "  spur"  to  travel  on.  However,  a  few 
stores  yet  remained  in  the  midst  of  deso 
lation. 

After  making  her  other  purchases, 
Flaxen  entered  the  "  red-front  drug  store" 
to  secure  the  special  brand  of  gum  which 
seemed  most  delectable  and  to  buy  a 
couple  of  cigars  for  the  "  boys." 

The   clerk,    who   was   lately   from   the 


Question  of  2>re0s. 


East,  and  wore  his  moustache  curled  up 
ward  like  the  whiskers  of  a  cat,  was 
"  gassing"  with  another  young  man,  who 
sat  in  a  chair  with  his  heels  on  the  coun 
ter. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  can  I  do  for  you 
to-day?"  he  said,  winking  at  the  loafer, 
as  if  to  say,  " Now  watch  me." 

u  I  want  some  gum." 

"What  kind,  darling?"  he  asked,  en 
couraged  by  the  fellow  in  the  chair. 

"  I  ain't  your  darling. — Kerosene,  shoo- 
fly,  an'  ten  cents'  worth." 

"  Say,  Jack,"  drawled  the  other  fellow, 
"git  onto  the  ankles!  Say,  sissy,  you 
picked  your  dress  too  soon.  She's  goin' 
to  be  a  daisy,  first  you  know.  Ain't  y', 
honey?"  he  said,  leaning  over  and  pinch 
ing  her  arm. 

"  Let  me  alone,  you  great,  mean  thing ! 
I'll  tell  ol'  pap  on  you,  see  if  I  don't," 
cried  Flaxen,  her  eyes  filling  with  angry 
tears.  And  as  they  proceeded  to  other 
and  bolder  remarks  she  rushed  out,  feel 
ing  vaguely  the  degradation  of  being  so 
spoken  to  and  so  touched.  It  seemed  to 


so  a  xtttle  IKorafc. 

become  more  atrocious  the  more  she 
thought  upon  it. 

When  she  reached  home  there  were  still 
signs  of  tears  on  her  face,  and  when  An- 
son  came  out  to  help  her  alight,  and  no 
ticing  it  asked,  "What's  the  matter?" 
she  burst  out  afresh,  crying,  and  talking 
incoherently.  Anson  was  astonished. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Elaxie? 
Can't  you  tell  ol'  pap?  Are  ye  sick?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  rushed  past 
him  into  the  house  and  into  her  bedroom, 
like  a  little  cyclone  of  wrath.  Ans  slowly 
followed  her,  much  perplexed.  She  was 
lying  face  downward  on  the  bed,  sobbing. 

"  What's  the  matter,  little  one?  Can't 
y'  tellol'  pap?  Have  the  girls  be'nmak- 
in'  fun  o'  yeh  again?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Have  the  boys  be'n  botherin'  yeh?" 
No  reply.  "  Who  was  it?"  Still  silence. 
He  was  getting  stern  now.  "  Tell  me 
right  now." 

"  Jack  Keeves — an' — an'  another  feller." 

"Wha'  d'  they  do?"  Silence.  "Tell 
me." 


B  Question  of  Bress,  51 

"  They — pinched  me,  an' — an' — talked 
mean  to  me,"  she  replied,  breaking  down 
again  with  the  memory  of  the  insult. 

Anson  began  to  understand. 

"  Wai,  there !  You  dry  y'r  eyes,  Flaxie, 
an'  go  an'  git  supper;  they  won't  do  it 
again — not  this  harvest,"  he  added  grimly 
as  he  marched  to  the  door  to  enter  the 
buggy. 

Bert,  coming  along  from  the  barn  and 
seeing  Anson  about  to  drive  away,  asked 
where  he  was  going.  Anson  tried  to  look 
indifferent. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  little  business  to  trans 
act  with  Reeves  and  some  other  smart 
Aleck  downtown." 

"What's  up?  What  have  they  be'n 
doing?"  asked  Gearheart,  reading  trouble 
in  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"  Well,  they  have  be'n  a  little  too  fresh 
with  Flaxen  to-day,  an'  need  a  lesson." 

"  They're  equal  to  it.  Say,  Anson,  let 
me  go,"  laying  his  hand  on  the  dasher, 
ready  to  leap  in. 

"No:  you're  too  brash.  You  wouldn't 
know  when  to  quit.  No:  you  stay  right 


52  a  xtttle  morefe, 

here.  Don't  say  anything  to  Elaxen  about 
it;  if  she  wants  to  know  where  I'm  gone, 
tell  her  I  found  I  was  out  o'  nails." 

As  Anson  drove  along  swiftly  he  was  in 
a  savage  mood  and  thinking  deeply.  Two 
or  three  times  of  late  some  of  his  friends 
had  touched  rather  freely  upon  the  fact 
that  Flaxen  was  becoming  a  woman. 
"  Girls  ripen  early  out  in  this  climate," 
one  old  chap  had  said,  "and  your  little 
Norsk  there  is  likely  to  leave  you  one  of 
these  days."  He  felt  now  that  something 
deliberately  and  inexpressibly  offensive 
had  been  said  and  done  to  his  little  girl. 
He  didn't  want  to  know  just  what  it  was, 
but  just  who  did  it;  that  was  all.  It  was 
time  to  make  a  protest. 

Hitching  his  horse  to  a  ring  in  the 
sidewalk  upon  arrival,  he  walked  into  the 
drug  store,  which  was  also  the  post-office. 
Young  Reeves  was  inside  the  post-office 
corner  giving  out  the  mail,  and  Anson 
sauntered  about  the  store  waiting  his 
chance. 

He  was  a  dangerous-looking  man  just 
now.  Ordinarily  his  vast  frame,  huge, 


H  Question  of  Drees,  53 

grizzled  beard,  and  stern,  steady  eyes 
would  quell  a  panther;  but  now  as  he 
leaned  against  the  counter  a  shrewd  ob 
server  would  have  said,  "  Lookout  for 
him;  he's  dangerous." 

His  gray  shirt,  loose  at  the  throat, 
showed  a  neck  that  resembled  the  spread 
ing  base  of  an  oak  tree,  and  his  crossed 
limbs  and  half-recumbent  pose  formed  a 
curious  opposition  to  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

Nobody  noticed  him  specially.  Most 
coiners  and  goers,  being  occupied  with 
their  mail,  merely  nodded  and  passed  on. 

Finally  some  one  called  for  a  cigar,  and 
Reeves,  having  finished  in  the  post-office 
department,  came  jauntily  along  behind 
the  counter  directly  to  where  Anson  stood. 
As  he  looked  casually  into  the  giant's  eyes 
he  started  back,  but  too  late;  one  vast 
hand  had  clutched  him  by  the  collar,  and 
he  was  jerked  over  the  counter  and  cuffed 
from  hand  to  hand,  like  a  mouse  in  the 
paws  of  a  cat.  Though  Ans  used  his 
open  palm,  the  punishment  was  fearful. 
Blood  burst  from  his  victim's  nose  and 
mouth;  he  yelled  with  fright  and  pain. 


54  a  Xittte 


The  rest  rushed  to  help. 

"  Stand  back  !  This  is  a  private  affair," 
said  Ans,  throwing  up  a  warning  hand. 
They  paused  ;  all  knew  his  strength. 

"It  wasn't  me!"  screamed  Reeves  as 
the  punishment  increased  ;  "  it  was  Doc 
Coe." 

Coe,  his  hands  full  of  papers  and  let 
ters,  horrified  at  what  had  overtaken 
Reeves,  stood  looking  on.  But  now  he 
tried  to  escape.  Flinging  the  battered, 
half  -senseless  Reeves  back  over  the  coun 
ter,  where  he  lay  in  a  heap,  Anson  caught 
Coe  by  the  coat  just  as  he  was  rushing 
past  him,  and  duplicated  the  punishment, 
ending  by  kicking  him  into  the  street, 
where  he  lay  stunned  and  helpless.  Ans 
said  then,  in  a  voice  that  the  rest  heard, 
"  The  next  time  you  insult  a  girl,  you'd 
better  inquire  into  the  qualities  of  her 
guardeen." 

This  little  matter  attended  to,  he  un 
hitched  his  horse  from  the  sidewalk,  and 
refusing  to  answer  any  questions,  rode 
off  home,  outwardly  as  calm  as  though  he 
had  just  been  shaking  hands. 


H  Question  of  Bress.  55 

Supper  was  about  ready  when  he  drove 
up,  and  through  the  open  door  he  could 
see  the  white-covered  table  and  could 
hear  the  cheerful  clatter  of  dishes. 
Flaxen  was  whistling.  Eight  years  of 
hard  work  had  not  clone  much  for  these 
sturdy  souls,  but  they  had  managed  to 
secure  with  incredible  toil  a  comfortable 
little  house  surrounded  with  outbuildings. 
Calves  and  chickens  gave  life  to  the  barn 
yard,  and  fields  of  wheat  rippled  and  ran 
with  swash  of  heavy-bearded  heads  and 
dapple  of  shadow  and  sheen. 

Flaxen  was  now  the  housewife  and 
daughter  of  these  hard-working  pioneers, 
and  a  cheery  and  capable  one  she  had  be 
come.  No  one  had  ever  turned  up  with  a 
better  claim  to  her,  and  so  she  had  grown 
up  with  Ans  and  Bert,  going  to  school 
when  she  could  spare  the  time,  but  mainly 
being  adviser  and  associate  at  the  farm. 

Ans  and  Bert  had  worked  hard  winter 
and  summer  trying  to  get  ahead,  but  had 
not  succeeded  as  they  had  hoped.  Crops 
had  failed  for  three  or  four  years,  and 
money  was  scarce  with  them;  but  they 


56  B  Xittlc  IKorsfe. 

had  managed  to  build  this  small  frame 
house  and  to  get  a  little  stock  about  them, 
and  this  year,  with  a  good  crop,  would 
"swing  clear,"  and  be  able  to  do  some 
thing  for  Flaxen — perhaps  send  her  to 
Belleplain  to  school,  togged  out  like  a 
little  queen. 

"When  Anson  returned  to  the  house  after 
putting  out  the  horse,  he  found  Bert  read 
ing  the  paper  in  the  little  sitting-room 
and  Flaxen  putting  the  tea  on  the  stove. 

"  Wha'  d'  y'  do  to  him,  pap?"  laughed 
she,  all  her  anger  gone.  Bert  came  out 
to  listen. 

"  Oh,  nothin'  p'tic'lar,"  answered  Ans, 
flinging  his  hat  at  a  chicken  that  made 
as  though  to  come  in,  and  rolling  up  his 
sleeves  preparatory  to  sozzling  his  face  at 
the  sink.  "  I  jest  cuffed  'em  a  little,  an' 
let  'em  go." 

"  Is  that  all?"  said  Flaxen,  disappoint 
edly,  a  comical  look  on  her  round  face. 

"Now,  don't  you  worry,"  put  in  Bert. 
"  Anson's  cuffin'  a  man  is  rather  severe  ex 
perience.  I  saw  him  cuff  a  man  once;  it 
ain't  anythin'  to  be  desired  a  second  time. " 


21  (SUtestfon  of  Bress.  57 

They  all  drew  about  the  table.  Flaxen 
looked  very  womanly  as  she  sat  cutting 
the  bread  and  pouring  the  tea.  She  had 
always  been  old  in  her  ways  about  the 
house,  for  she  had  very  early  assumed  the 
housewife's  duties  and  cares.  Her  fresh- 
coloured  face  beamed  with  delight  as  she 
watched  the  hungry  men  devouring  the 
fried  pork,  potatoes,  and  cheese. 

"  When  y'  goin'  to  begin  cuttin',  boys?" 
Collectively  they  were  boys  to  her,  but 
when  addressing  them  separately  they  were 
"  Bert"  and  "  Pap." 

"To-morrow  'r  nex'  day,  I  guess," 
answered  Ansou,  looking  out  of  the  open 
door.  "Don't  it  look  fine  —  all  yeller 
an'  green?  I  tell  ye  they  ain't  anything 
lays  over  a  ripe  field  o'  wheat  in  my  eyes. 
You  jest  take  it  when  the  sun  strikes  it 
right,  an'  the  wind  is  playin'  on  it — when 
it  kind  o'  sloshes  around  like  water — an' 
the  clouds  go  over  it,  droppin'  shadders 
down  on  it,  an'  a  hawk  kind  o'  goes 
skimmin'  over  it,  divin'  into  it  once  in 
a  while " 

He  did  not  finish ;  it  was  not  necessary. 

5 


58  B  Xittle  IKorsfc. 

"Yes,  sir!"  adjudged  Gearheart,  after 
a  pause,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  looking  out  of  the  door  on  the  far- 
stretching,  sun-glorified  plain. 

"  The  harvest  kind  o'  justifies  the  win 
ter  we  have  out  here.  That  is,  when  we 
have  a  harvest  such  as  this.  Fact  is,  we 
fellers  live  six  months  o'  the  year  lookin' 
ahead  to  harvest,  an'  t'other  six  months 
lookin'  back  to  it.  Well,  this  won't  buy 
the  woman  a  dress,  Ans.  We  must  get 
that  header  set  up  to-night  if  we  can." 

They  pushed  their  chairs  back  noisily 
and  rose  to  go  out.  Flaxen  said : 

"  Say,  which  o'  you  boys  is  goin'  to  help 
me  churn  to-night?" 

Anson  groaned,  while  she  laughed. 

"I  don't  know,  Flax;  ask  us  an  easier 
one." 

"  We'll  attend  to  that  after  it  gets  too 
dark  to  work  on  the  machine,"  added 
Bert. 

"Well,  see  't  y'  do.  I  can't  do  it;  I've 
got  bread  to  mix  an'  a  chicken  to  dress. 
Say,  if  you  don't  begin  cuttin'  till  day 
after  to-morrow,  we  can  go  down  to  the 


B  (Question  of  Dress.  59 

sociable  to-morrow  night.  Last  one  o' 
the  season." 

"  I  wish  it  was  the  last  one  before  the 
kingdom  come,"  growled  Bert  as  he 
"  stomped"  out  the  door.  "  They're  a  bad 
lot.  The  idea  o'  takin'  down  four  dol 
lars'  worth  o'  grub  an'  then  payin'  four 
dollars  for  the  privilege  of  eat  in'  half  of 
it!  I'll  take  my  chicken  here,  when  I'm 
hungry." 

"  Bert  ain't  partial  to  sociables,  is  he, 
pap?"  laughed  Flaxen. 

"  I  should  hate  to  have  the  minister 
dependin'  on  Bert  for  a  livin'." 

"Sa-ay,  pap!" 

"Wai,  babe?" 

"  I  expect  I'll  haf  t'  have  a  new  dress 
one  o'  these  days." 

"Think  so?" 

"You  bet." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the  one 
y'  got  on?  Ain't  no  holes  in  it  that  I 
can  see,"  looking  at  it  carefully  and  turn 
ing  her  around  as  if  she  were  on  a  pivot. 

"Well,  ain't  it  purty  short,  pap?"  she 
said  suggestively. 


GO  a  xittle 


"I  swear,  I  don't  know  but  it  is,"  con 
ceded  Anson,  scratching  his  head  ;  "  I 
hadn't  paid  much  'tention  to  it  before. 
It  certainly  is  a  lee-tie  too  short. 
Lemme  see:  ain't  no  way  o'  lettin'  it 
down,  is  they?" 

"  Nary.  She's  clean  down  to  the  last 
notch  now,"  replied  Flaxen  convincingly. 

"  Couldn't  pull  through  till  we  thrash?" 
he  continued,  still  in  a  tentative  manner. 

"Could,  but  don't  like  to,"  she  an 
swered,  laughing  again,  and  showing  her 
white  teeth  pleasantly. 

"  I  s'pose  it'll  cost  suthin',"  he  insin 
uated  in  a  dubious  tone. 

"  Mattie  Stuart  paid  seven  dollars  fer 
her'n,  pap,  an'  I  --  " 

"  Seven  how  manys?" 

"Dollars,  pap,  makin'  an'  everythin'. 
An'  then  I  ought  to  have  a  new  hat  to  go 
with  the  dress,  an'  a  new  pair  o'  shoes. 
All  the  girls  are  wearin'  white,  but  I 
reckon  I  can  git  along  with  a  good  col 
oured  one  that'll  do  fer  winter." 

"  Wai,  all  right.  I'll  fix  it  —  some  way," 
Ans  said,  turning  away  only  to  look  back 


B  Question  of  Dress,  61 

and  smile  to  see  her  dancing  up  and  down 
and  crying: 

"Oh,  goody,  goody!" 

"  I'll  do  it  if  I  haf  to  borrow  money  at 
two  per  cent  a  month,"  said  he  to  Bert, 
as  he  explained  the  case.  "  Hear  her 
sing!  Why,  dern  it!  I'd  spend  all  I've 
got  to  keep  that  child  twitterin'  like  that. 
Wouldn't  you,  eh?" 

Bert  was  silent,  thinking  deeply  on  a 
variety  of  matters  suggested  by  Anson's 
words.  The  crickets  were  singing  from 
out  the  weeds  near  by;  a  lost  little  wild 
chicken  was  whistling  in  plaintive  sweet 
ness  down  in  the  barley-field;  the  flaming 
light  from  the  half-sunk  sun  swept  along 
the  green  and  yellow  grain,  glorifying  as 
with  a  bath  of  gold  everything  it  touched. 

"  I  wish  that  grain  hadn't  ripened  so 
fast,  Ans.  It's  blightin'." 

"Think  so?" 

"  Xo :  I  know  it.  I  went  out  to  look 
at  it  before  supper,  an'  every  one  of  those 
spots  that  look  so  pretty  are  just  simply 
burnin'  up!  But,  say,  ain't  it  a  little 
singular  that  Flaxen  should  blossom  out 


62  a  xfttle 


in  a  desire  for  a  new  dress  all  at  once? 
Ain't  it  rather  sudden?" 

"Wai,  no:  I  don't  think  it  is.  Come 
to  look  it  all  over,  up  one  side  an'  down 
the  other,  she's  been  growin'  about  an 
inch  a  month  this  summer,  an'  her  best 
dress  is  gittin'  turrible  short  the  best  way 
you  can  fix  it.  She's  gittin'  to  be  'most 
a  woman,  Bert." 

"Yes:  I  know  she  is,"  said  Bert,  sig 
nificantly.  "An'  something's  got  to  be 
done  right  off." 

"  Wha'  d'  ye  mean  by  that,  oP  man?" 

"I  mean  jest  this.  It's  time  we  did 
something  religious  for  that  girl.  She 
ain't  had  much  chance  since  she's  been 
here  with  us.  She  ain't  had  no  chance 
at  all.  Now  I  move  that  we  send  her 
away  to  school  this  winter.  Give  her  a 
good  outfit  an'  send  her  away.  This  ain't 
no  sort  o'  way  for  a  girl  to  grow  up  in." 

"Wai,  I've  be'n  thinkin'  o'  that  my 
self;  but  where'll  we  send  her?" 

"  Oh,  back  to  the  States  somewhere  ; 
Wisconsin  or  Minnesota  —  somewhere." 

"  Why  not  to  Boomtown?" 


21  (Question  of  Bress.  63 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  yeh,  Ans.  I've  been 
hearing  a  good  'eal  off  an'  on  about  the 
way  we're  bringin'  her  up  here  'alone  with 
two  rough  old  codgers,'  an'  I  jest  want 
to  give  her  a  better  chance  than  the  Ter 
ritory  affords.  I  want  her  to  git  free  of 
us  and  all  like  us,  for  a  while;  let  her 
see  something  of  the  world.  Besides,  that 
business  over  in  Belleplain  to-day  kind 
o'  settled  me.  The  plain  facts  are,  Ans, 
the  people  are  a  little  too  free  with  her 
because  she  is  growin'  up  here " 

"  I  know  some  fellers  that  won't  be 
again." 

"  Well,  they  are  beginnin'  to  wink  an* 
nudge  each  other  an'  to  say " 

"  Go  on !     What  do  they  say?" 

"  They  say  she's  goin'  to  be  a  woman 
soon ;  that  this  fatherly  business  is  bound 
to  play  out." 

"I'd  like  to  see  anybody  wink  when 
I'm  around.  I'd  smash  'em!"  said  An- 
son  through  his  set  teeth.  "  Why,  she's 
our  little  babe,"  he  broke  out,  as  the  full 
significance  of  the  matter  came  to  him. 
"  My  little  un ;  I'm  her  ol'  pap.  Why " 


64  a  xtttic 


He  ended  in  despair.  "  It's  none  o'  their 
darn  business." 

"  There  ain't  no  use  o'  howl  in',  Ans. 
You  can't  smash  a  whole  neighborhood." 

"  But  what  are  we  goin'  to  do?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  we  mustn't  do. 
We  mustn't  tog  her  out  jest  yet." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Anson,  not  seeing 
these  subtle  distinctions  of  time  and 
place. 

"  Because,  you  tog  her  out  this  week  or 
next,  without  any  apparent  reason,  in  a 
new  hat  an'  dress  an'  gloves,  an'  go  down 
to  one  o'  these  sociables  with  her,  an' 
you'd  have  to  clean  out  the  whole  crowd. 
They'd  all  be  winkin'  an'  nudgin'  an' 
grinnin'  —  see?" 

"Wai,  go  on,"  said  the  crushed  giant. 
"What  '11  we  do?" 

"  Just  let  things  go  on  as  they  are  for 
the  present  till  we  git  ready  to  send  her 
to  school." 

"  But  I  promised  the  togs." 

"  All  right.  I've  stated  the  case,"  Gear- 
heart  returned,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
washed  his  hands  of  the  whole  affair. 


B  (Sluestton  of  H>res0.  65 

Anson  rose  with  a  sudden  gesture. 
"  Jest  hear  her!  whistlin'  away  like  a  lark. 
I  don't  see  how  I'm  goin'  to  go  in  there 
an'  spoil  all  her  fun;  I  can't  do  it,  that's 
all." 

"  Well,  now,  you  leave  it  all  to  me.  I'll 
state  the  case  to  her  in  a  way  that'll  catch 
her — see  if  I  don't.  She  ain't  no  common 
girl." 

It  was  growing  dark  as  they  went  in, 
and  the  girl's  face  could  not  be  seen. 

"Well,  Bert,  are  y'  ready  to  help 
churn?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,  if  Ans'll  milk." 

"Oh,  he'll  milk;  he  jest  loves  to  milk 
ol'  Brindle  when  the  flies  are  thick." 

"Oh,  you  bet,"  said  Ans,  to  make  her 
laugh. 

"Now,  Flaxen,"  coughed  Gearheart  in 
beginning,  "we've  been  discussin'  your 
case,  an'  we've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  ought  to  have  the  togs  specified 
in  the  indictment"  (this  to  take  away  the 
gravity  of  what  was  to  follow);  "but 
we're  kind  o'  up  a  tree  about  just  what 
we'd  better  do.  The  case  is  this.  We've 


66  B  Xittle  morsfc. 

got  to  buy  a  horse  to  fill  out  our  team,  an* 
that's  a-goin'  to  take  about  all  we  can 
rake  an'  scrape." 

"  We  may  have  to  git  our  groceries  on 
tick.  Now,  if  you  could  only  pull  through 
till  after "  Anson  broke  in. 

"  It's  purty  tough,  Flaxie,  an'  pap's 
awful  sorry;  but  if  you  could  jest  pull 
through " 

It  was  a  great  blow  to  poor  little  Flaxen, 
and  she  broke  down  and  cried  unrestrain 
edly. 

"  I — I — don't  see  why  I  can't  have 
things  like  the  rest  o'  the  girls."  It  was 
her  first  reproach,  and  it  cut  to  the  heart. 
Anson  swore  under  his  breath,  and  was 
stepping  forward  to  say  something  when 
Gearheart  restrained  him. 

"But,  y'  see,  Flaxie,  we  ain't  askin' 
you  to  give  up  the  dress,  only  to  wait  on  us 
for  a  month  or  so,  till  we  thrash." 

"That's  it,  babe,"  said  Anson,  going 
over  to  where  she  sat,  with  her  arms  lying 
on  the  table  and  her  face  hidden  upon 
them.  "  We  could  spend  dollars  then 
where  we  couldn't  cents  now." 


B  (Question  of  Bress.  67 

"And  they  won't  be  any  more  thing- 
umyjigs  at  the  church,  anyhow,  an'  the 
wheat's  blightin'  on  the  knolls,  besides." 

But  the  first  keen  disappointment  over, 
she  was  her  brave  self  once  more. 

"Well,  all  right,  boys,"  she  said,  her 
trembling  voice  curiously  at  variance  with 
her  words;  "I'll  get  along  somehow,  but 
I  tell  you  I'll  have  something  scrumptious 
to  pay  for  this — see  if  I  don't."  She  was 
smiling  again  faintly.  "  It'll  cost  more'n 
one  ten  dollars  for  my  togs,  as  you  call 
'em.  Now,  pap,  you  go  an'  milk  that 
cow!  An',  Bert,  you  glue  yerself  to  that 
churn-dasher,  an'  don't  you  stop  to 
breathe  or  swear  till  it's  done." 

"That's  the  girl  to  have— that's  our 
own  Flaxie !  She  knows  how  hard  things 
come  on  a  farm,"  cheered  Anson. 

"  I  bet  I  do,"  she  said,  wiping  away  the 
last  trace  of  her  tears  and  smiling  at  her 
palpable  hit.  And  then  began  the  thump 
of  the  dasher,  and  out  in  the  dusk  Anson 
was  whistling  as  he  milked. 

She  went  down  to  the  sociable  the  next 
night  in  her  old  dress,  and  bravely  looked 


Xittle 


happy  for  pap's  sake.  Bert  did  not  go. 
Anson  was  a  rather  handsome  old  fellow. 
Huge,  bearded  like  a  Russian,  though  the 
colour  of  his  beard  was  a  wolf  brindle,  re 
sembling  a  bunch  of  dry  buffalo-grass, 
Bert  was  accustomed  to  say  that  he  looked 
the  father  of  the  girl,  for  she  had  the 
same  robust  development,  carried  herself 
as  erect,  and  looked  everybody  in  the  eye 
with  the  same  laughing  directness. 

There  were  some  sly  remarks  among  a 
ribald  few,  but  on  the  whole  everything 
passed  off  as  usual.  They  were  both  gen 
eral  favorites,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  few 
people  remarked  that  Flaxen's  dress  was 
not  good  enough.  She  certainly  forgot 
all  about  it,  so  complete  was  her  absorp 
tion  in  the  gayety  of  the  evening. 

"  Wai,  now  for  four  weeks'  hard  times, 
Flaxen,"  said  Anson,  as  they  were  jogging 
homeward  about  eleven  o'clock. 

"I  can  stand  my  share  of  it,  pap,"  she 
stoutly  replied.  "  I'm  no  chicken." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AFTER    HARVEST. 

LL  through  those  four  or  five 
weeks,  at  every  opportunity, 
the  partners  planned  the  fu 
ture  of  their  waif.  In  the 
harvest-field,  when  they  had  a  moment 
together,  one  would  say  to  the  other : 

"We'll  let  her  stay  two  years  if  she 
likes  it,  eh?" 

"Certainly;  she  needn't  come  back  till 
she  wants  to.  We  may  be  rich  enough  to 
sell  out  then,  and  move  back  ourselves. 
I'm  gittin'  tired  o'  this  prairie  myself. 
If  we  could  sell,  we'd  put  her  through  a 
whole  course  o'  sprouts." 

"  You  bet !     Sell  when  you  can  find  a 
buyer.     I'll  sign  the  deed." 
"All  right." 

And  then  they  would  go  to  work  again 
toiling  and  planning  for  the  future.  Ev- 


70  a  xittle  IRorsfc. 

ery  day  during  August  these  men  worked 
with,  the  energy  of  demons,  up  early  in 
the  morning  and  out  late  at  night,  har 
vesting  their  crop.  All  day  the  header 
clattered  to  and  fro  with  Bert  or  Ans 
astride  the  rudder,  a  cloud  of  dust  rolling 
up  from  the  ground,  out  of  which  the 
painted  flanges  of  the  reel  flashed  like 
sword-strokes.  All  day,  and  day  after 
day,  while  the  gulls  sailed  and  soared  in 
the  hazy  air  and  the  larks  piped  from  the 
dun  grass,  these  human  beings,  covered 
with  grime  and  sweat,  worked  in  heat  and 
parching  wind.  And  never  for  an  hour 
did  they  forget  their  little  waif  and  her 
needs.  And  she  did  her  part  in  the 
house.  She  rose  as  early  as  they  and 
worked  almost  as  late.  It  was  miraculous, 
they  admitted. 

One  night  toward  the  last  of  the  har 
vest  they  were  returning  along  the  road 
from  a  neighboring  farm,  where  they  had 
been  to  head  some  late  wheat.  The  tired 
horses  with  down-hung  heads  and  swing 
ing  traces  were  walking  sullenly  but 
swiftly  along  the  homeward  road,  the 


Bfter  1barvc0t  71 

wagon  rumbling  sleepily;  the  stars  were 
coming  out  in  the  east,  while  yet  the  rose 
and  amethyst  of  the  fallen  sun  lighted  the 
western  sky.  Through  the  air,  growing 
moist,  came  the  sound  of  reapers  still  go 
ing.  Men  were  shouting  blithely,  while 
voices  of  women  and  children  came  from 
the  cabins,  where  yellow  lights  began  to 
twinkle. 

Anson  and  Bert,  blackened  with  dust 
and  perspiration  and  weary  to  the  point 
of  listlessness,  sat  with  elbows  on  knees, 
talking  in  low,  slow  tones  on  the  never-fail 
ing  topic,  crops  and  profits.  Their  voices 
chimed  with  the  sound  of  the  wagon. 

"There's  the  light,"  broke  out  Ans, 
rousing  himself  and  the  team;  "Flaxen's 
got  supper  all  ready  for  us.  She's  a  reg 
ular  little  Trojan,  that  girl  is.  They 
ain't  many  girls  o'  fourteen  that  'u'd  stay 
there  contented  all  day  alone  an'  keep  all 
the  whole  business  in  apple-pie  order. 
She'll  get  her  pay  some  day." 

"We'll  try  to  pay  her;  but  say,  ol' 
man,  ain't  it  about  time  to  open  up  our 
plans  to  her?" 


72  a  Xfttle  Borsfc, 

"Wai,  yes;    it  is. 
the  thing  to-night,  an'  we'll  have  it  over 
with." 

As  they  drove  up,  Flaxen  came  to  the 
door.  "  Hello,  boys !  What  makes  ye  so 
late?" 

"  Finishin'  up  afield,  babe.     All  done." 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  danced  up 
and  down. 

"  Goody !  all  done  at  last.  Well,  yank 
them  horses  out  o'  their  harnesses  an' 
come  to  biscuits.  They're  jest  sizzlin' 
hot." 

"All  right.  We'll  be  there  in  about 
two  jerks  of  a  lamb's  tail  in  fly-time. 
Bert,  grab  a  tug;  I'm  hungry  as  a 
wolf." 

It  was  about  the  first  of  September 
and  the  nights  were  getting  cool,  and  the 
steaming  supper  seemed  like  a  feast  to  the 
chilled  and  stiffened  men  coming  in  a  lit 
tle  later  and  sitting  down  with  the  sound 
of  the  girl's  cheery  voice  in  their  ears. 
The  tea  was  hot;  so  were  the  biscuits. 
The  pyramid  of  hot  mashed  potato  had  a 
lump  of  half-melted  butter  in  the  hollow 


Bfter  1barv>est.  73 

top,  and  there  were  canned  peaches  and 
canned  salmon. 

"Yes:  we're  about  finished  up  har 
vesting"  said  Bert,  as  they  settled  them 
selves  at  the  table,  "  an'  it's  about  time  to 
talk  about  gittin'  you  off  to  school." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that.  It  ain't  no 
great  job,  I  reckon.  I  can  git  ready  in 
about  seventeen  jiffies,  stop-watch  time." 

"  Not  if  you  are  goin'  away  off  to  some 
city  in  the  East " 

"Yes:  but  I  ain't,  y'  see." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  Bert  an'  I've  be'n 
talkin'  it  all  over  f  r  the  last  three  weeks. 
We're  goin'  to  send  you  back  to  St.  Peter 
to  the  seminary." 

"  I  guess  not,  pap.  I'd  like  to  know 
what  you  think  you're  a-doin'  sendin' 
me  'way  back  there.  Boomtown's  good 
enough  fer  me." 

"There,  there,  Flaxie;  don't  git  mad. 
Y'  see,  we  think  they  ain't  any  thin'  good 
enough  for  you.  Nothin'  too  good  for 
a  girl  that  stays  to  home  an'  cooks  f'r 
two  old  cusses " 

"You    ain't    cusses!     You're    jest    as 


74  a  xittle  morsfc. 

good  as  you  can  be;  but  I  ain't  a-goin' — 
there!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  'Cause  I  ain't;  that's  why." 

"  Why,  don't  y'  wan'  to  go  back  there 
where  the  people  have  nice  houses,  an' 
where  they's  a  good " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  enough;  that's 
why.  I  ain't  goin'  back  to  no  seminary  to 
be  laughed  at  'cause  I  don't  know  beans." 

"But  you  do,"  laughed  Bert,  with  an 
attempt  to  lighten  the  gloom — "you 
know  canned  beans." 

"  They'd  laff  at  me,  I  know,  an'  call 
me  a  little  Norsk."  She  was  ready  to  cry. 

"I'll  bet  they  won't,  not  when  they  see 
our  new  dress  an'  our  new  gold  watch — 
dress  jest  the  color  o'  crow's-foot  grass, 
watch  thirty  carats  fine.  I'd  laugh  to 
see  'em  callin'  my  babe  names  then!" 

And  so  by  bribing,  coaxing,  and  lying 
they  finally  obtained  her  tearful  consent. 
They  might  not  have  succeeded  even  then 
had  it  not  been  for  a  young  lady  in  Boom- 
town  who  was  going  back  to  the  same 
school,  and  who  offered  to  take  her  in 


Bfter  1ban>est.  75 

charge.  But  there  was  hardly  a  day  that 
she  did  not  fling  herself  down  into  a  chair 
and  cry  out : 

"  I  jest  ain't  goin'.  I'm  all  right  here, 
an'  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  let  me  stay 
here.  I  ain't  made  no  fuss.  Seems  as  if 
you  thought  it  was  fun  f 'r  me  to  go  'way 
off  there  where  I  don't  know  any  thin' 
an'  where  I  don't  know  anybody." 

But  having  come  to  a  conclusion,  the 
men  were  relentless.  They  hired  sewing- 
girls,  and  skirmished  back  and  forth  be 
tween  Boomtown  and  the  farm  like  mad. 
Their  steady  zeal  made  up  for  her  moody 
and  fitful  enthusiasm.  However,  she  grew 
more  resigned  to  the  idea  as  the  days  wore 
on  toward  the  departure,  though  her  fits 
of  dark  and  unusual  musing  were  alarm 
ing  to  Anson,  who  feared  a  desperate  re 
treat  at  the  last  moment. 

He  took  her  over  to  see  Miss  Holt  one 
day,  but  .not  before  he  had  prepared  the 
way. 

"  I  s'pose  things  are  in  purty  good  shape 
around  this  seminary?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,    yes,    indeed.     There    are    three 


76  a  Xittte  morsfe. 

large  buildings;  libraries,  picture-galler 
ies,  and  music-rooms.  The  boarding- 
halls  are  carpeted  and  the  parlors  are 
really  elegant." 

"  Uh-hum !"  commented  Anson.  "  "Well, 
now,  I'm  goin'  to  bring  my  girl  over  to 
see  you,  an'  I  guess  it  'u'd  be  jest  as  well 
if  you  didn't  mention  these  fineries  an' 
things.  Y'  see,  she's  afraid  of  all  such 
things.  It  'u'd  be  better  to  tell  her  that 
things  weren't  very  gorgeous  there — about 
like  the  graded  school  in  Boomtown,  say. 
She  ain't  used  to  these  music-halls  an' 
things.  Kind  o'  make  her  think  St. 
Peter  ain't  no  great  shakes,  anyhow." 

"  I  see,"  laughed  the  quick-witted  girl. 
And  she  succeeded  in  removing  a  good 
deal  of  Flaxen's  dread  of  the  seminary. 

"Wai,  babe,  to-morrow,"  said  Anson, 
as  they  were  eating  supper,  and  he  was 
astonished  to  see  her  break  out  in  weeping. 

"  Why  don't  you  keep  harpin'  away  on 
that  the  whole  while?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Can't  you  leave  me  alone  a  minute? 
Seems  to  me  you're  jest  crazy  to  git  rid 


Bfter  1barve0t.  77 

"Oh,  we  are,"  put  in  Bert.  "We're 
jest  lickin'  our  chops  to  git  back  to  sour 
flapjacks  an'  soggy  bread.  Jest  seems  as 
though  we  couldn't  wait  till  to-morrow 
noon,  to  begin  doing  our  own  cookin' 
again." 

This  cleared  the  air  a  little,  and  they 
spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  without  say 
ing  very  much  directly  upon  the  depart 
ure.  The  two  men  sat  up  late  after 
Flaxen  had  gone  to  bed.  There  was  the 
trunk  and  valise  which  would  not  let 
them  forget  even  for  a  moment  what 
was  coming  on  the  morrow.  Every  time 
Anson  looked  at  her  he  sighed  and  tried 
to  swallow  the  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  Say,  Bert,  let's  let  her  stay  if  she 
wants  to,"  he  said  suddenly  after  they  had 
been  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 

"  Don't  make  a  cussed  fool  of  yourself, 
Ans,"  growled  Bert,  who  saw  that  heroic 
measures  were  necessary.  "  Go  to  bed  an' 
don't  you  say  another  word;  we've  got  to 
take  our  medicine  like  men." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

AN     EMPTY     HOUSE. 


NSON  was  the  more  talkative 
of  the  two  next  morning,  how 
ever. 

"  Come,  come,  brace  up,  babe! 
Anybody  'u'd  think  we'd  lost  all  the  rest 
of  our  family,  when  we're  only  doin'  the 
square  thing  by  our  daughter.  That's  all. 
Why,  you'll  be  as  happy  as  a  canary  in 
less'n  two  weeks.  Young  folks  is  about 
the  same  everywhere,  an'  you'll  git  ac 
quainted  in  less'n  two  jiffies." 

They  were  on  the  road  to  Boomtown  to 
put  Flaxen  on  the  train.  It  was  about 
the  tenth  of  September,  early  in  the  cold, 
crisp  air  of  a  perfect  morning.  In  the 
south  there  was  a  vast  phantom  lake,  with 
duplicate  cities  here  and  there  along  the 
winding  shores,  which  stretched  from  east 
to  west.  The  grain-stacks  stood  around 

78 


Bn  Bmptg  Ibouse.  79 

so  thickly  that  they  seemed  like  walls  of 
a  great,  low-built  town,  the  mirage  bring 
ing  into  vision  countless  hundreds  of  them 
commonly  below  the  horizon. 

The  smoke  of  steam  threshing-machines 
mounted  into  the  still  air  here  and  there, 
and  hung  long  in  a  slowly  drifting  cloud 
above  the  land.  The  prairie-lark,  the  last 
of  the  singing  birds,  whistled  softly  and 
infrequently  from  the  dry  grass.  The 
gulls  were  streaming  south  from  the 
lakes. 

They  were  driving  her  to  Boomtown  to 
avoid  the  inquisitive  eyes  of  the  good  peo 
ple  of  Belleplain.  "  I  may  break  down 
an'  blubber,"  said  Anson  to  Bert;  "an' 
if  I  do,  I  don't  want  them  cussed  idiots 
standin'  around  laughin' — it's  better  to 
go  on  the  C.,  B.  and  Q.,  anyhow." 

Notwithstanding  his  struggle  to  keep 
talk  going,  Anson  was  unsuccessful  from 
the  very  moment  that  Belleplain  faded  to 
an  unsubstantial  group  of  shadows  and 
disappeared  from  the  level  plain  into  the 
air,  just  as  Boomtown  correspondingly 
wavered  into  sight  ahead.  Silence  so 


80  a  tittle  IKorsfc, 

profound  was  a  restraint  on  them  all,  and 
poor  Flaxen  with  wide  eyes  looked  wist 
fully  on  the  plain  that  stretched  away  into 
unknown  regions.  She  was  thinking  of 
her  poor  mother,  whom  she  dimly  remem 
bered  in  the  horror  of  that  first  winter. 
Naturally  of  a  gay,  buoyant  disposition, 
she  had  not  dwelt  much  upon  her  future 
or  her  past;  but  now  that  the  familiar 
plain  seemed  slipping  from  her  sight 
entirely,  she  was  conscious  of  its  beauty, 
and,  rapt  with  the  associated  emotions 
which  came  crowding  upon  her,  she  felt 
as  though  she  were  leaving  the  tried  and 
true  for  the  unknown  and  uncertain. 

"  Boys,"  she  said  finally,  "  do  you  s'pose 
I've  got  any  folks?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  y'  had,  babe, 
somewhere  back  in  the  ol'  country." 

"  They  couldn't  talk  with  me  if  I  could 
find  'em,  could  they?" 

"  I  reckon  not,  'less  you  study  so  hard 
that  you  can  learn  their  lingo,"  said  Ans, 
seeing  another  opportunity  to  add  a  reason 
for  going  to  school. 

"  Well,  boys,  that's  what  I'm  goin'  to 


Ibou0e.  81 


do,  an'  by  an'  by  we'll  go  over  there  an' 
see  if  we  can't  find  'em,  won't  we?" 

"That's  the  talk;  now  you're  gittin' 
down  to  business,"  rejoined  Ans. 

"  I  s'pose  St.  Peter  is  a  good  'eal  bigger'n 
Boomtown,"  she  said  sighfully,  as  they 
neared  the  "  emporium  of  the  sleepy 
James." 

"A  little,"  said  the  astute  Gearheart. 

The  clanging  of  the  engines  and  the 
noise  of  shouting  gave  her  a  sinking  sen 
sation  in  the  chest,  and  she  clung  to  An- 
son's  arm  as  they  drove  past  the  engine. 
She  was  deafened  by  the  hiss  of  the  escap 
ing  steam  of  the  monster  standing  motion 
less,  headed  toward  the  east,  ready  to  leap 
on  its  sounding  way. 

On  the  platform  they  found  Miss  Holt 
and  a  number  of  other  friends  waiting. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  clanging  and 
whanging  and  scuffling,  it  seemed  to  the 
poor,  overwrought  girl.  Miss  Holt  took 
her  in  charge  at  once  and  tried  to  keep 
her  cheerful.  When  they  had  checked 
her  trunk  and  the  train  was  about  ready 
to  start,  Ans  looked  uneasy  and  fidgeted 


82  a  3ltttle 


about.  Bert  looked  on,  silent  and  dark. 
Flaxen,  with  her  new  long  dress  and  new 
hat,  looked  quite  the  woman,  and  Miss 
Holt  greeted  her  as  such;  indeed,  she 
kept  so  close  to  her  that  Anson  looked  in 
vain  for  a  chance  to  say  something  more 
which  was  on  his  mind.  Finally,  as  the 
train  was  about  going,  he  said  hesitat 
ingly: 

"  Elga,  jest  a  minute."  She  stared  for 
a  moment,  then  came  up  to  him. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  call  y'  Flaxen  afore 
her,"  he  explained;  "but  you  —  ain't  — 
kissed  us  good-bye."  He  ended  hesitat 
ingly. 

The  tears  were  already  streaming  down 
her  cheeks,  and  this  was  too  much. 
She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
sobbed  on  his  bosom  with  the  abandon  of 
girlish  grief. 

"  I  don't  wan'  to  go  't  all,  pap." 

"Oh,  yes,  y'  do,  Elga;  yes,  y'  do! 
Don't  mind  us;  we'll  be  all  right.  I'll 
have  Bert  writin'  a  full  half  the  time. 
There,  kiss  me  good-bye  an'  git  on  —  Bert 
here,  too." 


Bn  JEmptg  Ibouae, 


She  kissed  him  twice  through  his  bris 
tling  moustache,  and  going  to  Bert  offered 
her  lips,  and  then  came  back  to  Anson 
and  threw  herself  against  his  broad,  strong 
breast.  She  had  no  one  to  love  but  these 
two.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  leaving  every 
thing  in  the  world.  Anson  took  her  on 
his  firm  arm  and  helped  her  on  the  car, 
and  followed  her  till  she  was  seated  beside 
Miss  Holt. 

"Don't  cry,  babe;  you'll  make  oP  pap 
feel  turrible.  He'll  break  right  down 
here  afore  all  these  people,  an'  blubber, 
if  y'  don't  cheer  up.  Why,  you'll  soon 
be  as  happy  as  a  fly  in  soup.  Good-bye, 
good-bye!" 

The  train  started,  and  Anson,  brushing 
his  eyes  with  his  great  brown  hand,  swung 
himself  off  and  stood  looking  at  her.  As 
the  train  passsed  him  she  rushed  to  the 
rear  end  of  the  car,  and  remained  there 
looking  back  at  the  little  station  till  the 
sympathetic  Miss  Holt  gently  led  her  back 
to  her  seat.  Then  she  flattened  her  round 
cheek  against  the  pane  and  tried  to  see 
the  boys.  When  the  last  house  of  the 


84  a  SLittle  Borefe. 

town  passed  by  her  window  she  sank  back 
in  her  seat  and  sobbed  silently. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  be'n  attendin'  my  own 
funeral,"  said  Anson,  after  they  had  got 
into  their  wagon  and  the  train  had  gone 
out  of  sight  in  the  haze  of  the  prairie. 

"  Well,  it's  pretty  tough  on  that  child 
to  go  off  that  way.  To  her  the  world  is 
all  a  great  mystery.  When  you  an'  I  go 
to  heaven  it  won't  be  any  greater  change 
for  us  than  this  change  for  Flaxen — every 
face  strange,  every  spot  new." 

"  Wai,  she  ain't  far  away  but  we  can 
look  out  for  her.  She  ain't  poor  n'r  fa 
therless  as  long  as  we  live,  hey?" 

And  then  silence  fell  on  them.  As 
they  were  jogging  homeward  they  saw  the 
gray  gulls  rise  from  the  sod  and  go  home 
to  the  lake  for  the  night.  They  heard 
the  crickets'  evening  chorus  broaden  and 
deepen  to  an  endless  and  monotonous 
symphony,  while  behind  fantastic,  thin, 
and  rainless  clouds  the  sun  sank  in  un 
speakable  glory  of  colour.  The  air,  per 
fectly  still,  was  cool  almost  to  frostiness, 


Bn  Empts  Ifoouse.  85 

and,  far  above,  the  fair  stars  broke  from 
the  lilac  and  gold  of  the  sun-flushed  sky. 
Lights  in  the  farm-houses  began  to  ap 
pear. 

Once  or  twice  Anson  said:  "She's 
about  at  Summit  now.  I  hope  she's 
chirked  up." 

They  met  threshing-crews  going  noisily 
home  to  supper.  Once  they  met  an  "  out 
fit,"  engine,  tank,  separator,  all  moving 
along  like  a  train  of  cars,  while  every  few 
minutes  the  red  light  from  the  furnace 
gleamed  on  the  man  who  was  stuffing  the 
straw  into  the  furnace-door,  bringing  out 
his  face  so  plainly  that  they  knew  him.  As 
the  night  grew  deeper,  an  occasional  owl 
flapped  across  the  fields  in  search  of  mice. 

"  We're  bound  to  miss  her  like  thunder, 
Bert;  no  two  ways  about  that.  Can't 
help  but  miss  her  on  the  cookin',  hey?" 

Bert  nodded  without  looking  up.  As 
they  came  in  sight  of  home  at  last,  and 
saw  the  house  silhouetted  against  the 
faintly  yellow  sky,  Ans  said  with  a  sigh : 

"  No  light  an'  no  singin'  there  to 
night." 


CHAPTER   IX. 


HE  fact  is,  Flaxen  has  sp'iled 
us,"  laughed  Anson,  a  couple 
of  days  later,  when  Bert  was 
cursing  the  soggy  biscuit. 
"  We've  got  so  high-toned  that  we  can't 
stand  common  cookin'.  Time  was  we'd 
'a'  thought  ourselves  lucky  to  git  as  good 
as  that.  Rec'lect  them  flapjacks  we  ust 
to  make?  By  mighty!  you  could  shoe  a 
horse  with  'em.  Say,  I  wish  I  could  jest 
slip  in  an'  see  what  she's  a-doin'  about 
now,  hey?" 

"  She's  probably  writin'  a  letter.  She 
won't  do  much  of  anythin'  else  for  the 
first  week." 

"  I  hope  you're  right,"  said  Anson. 
They   got   a   queer   little   letter    every 
Wednesday,  each   one   for   several   weeks 
pitifully  like  the  others. 


"  it  Bgafn.  87 


Dear  boys  i  thought  i  would  take  my  pen 
in  hand  to  tell  you  i  dont  like  it  one  bit  the 
school  is  just  as  mene  as  it  can  be  the  girls 
do  laugh  at  me  they  call  me  toe-head,  if  i 
catch  em  right  i  will  fix  their  heads.  They 
is  one  girl  who  i  like  she  is  from  pipestone 
she  dont  know  no  moren  i  do  she  says  my 
dress  is  pritty  —  ol  nig  an  the  drake  all  rite  i 
wish  i  was  home.  ELGA. 


The  wish  to  bo  home  was  in  all  these 
letters  like  a  sob.  The  men  read  them 
over  carefully  and  gravely,  and  finally  An- 
son  would  put  them  away  in  the  Bible 
(bought  on  Flaxen  's  account)  for  safe 
keeping. 

As  the  letters  improved  in  form  their 
exultation  increased. 

"  Say,  Bert,  don't  you  notice  she  writes 
better  now?  She  makes  big  I's  now  in 
place  o'  little  ones.  Seems  's  if  she  runs 
the  sentence  all  together,  though.  " 

"  She'll  come  out  all  right.  You  see, 
she  goes  into  the  preparatory  department, 
where  they  teach  writin'  an'  spellin'. 
You'll  see  her  hand  improve  right  along 
now." 


83  B  Xittle  IKorsfe. 

And  it  did,  and  she  ceased  to  wail  for 
home  and  ceased  to  say  that  she  hated  her 
studies. 

"I  am  getting  along  splendid,"  she 
wrote  some  weeks  after  this.  "  I  like  my 
teacher;  her  name  is  Holt.  She  is  just 
as  nice  as  she  can  be.  She  is  cousin  to 
the  one  who  came  with  me ;  I  live  with 
her  uncle,  and  I  can  go  to  soshibles  when 
ever  I  want  to ;  but  the  other  girls  cant. 
I  am  feeling  pretty  good,  but  I  wish  you 
boys  was  here." 

She  did  not  wish  to  be  at  home  this 
time! 

Winter  shut  down  on  the  broad  land 
again  with  that  implacable,  remorseless 
brilliancy  of  fierce  cold  which  character 
ises  the  northern  plain,  stopping  work 
on  the  farm  and  bolting  all  doors.  Hardly 
a  day  that  the  sun  did  not  shine ;  but  the 
light  was  hard,  white,  glittering,  and 
cold,  the  winds  treacherous,  the  snow 
wild  and  restless.  There  was  now  com 
paratively  little  danger  of  being  lost  even 
in  the  fiercest  storms,  but  still  life  in  one 
of  these  little  cabins  had  an  isolation  al- 


"JBacbing"  it  again.  89 

most  as  terrible  as  that  of  a  ship  wedged 
amid  the  ice-floes  of  the  polar  regions. 

Day  after  day  rising  to  feed  the  cattle, 
night  after  night  bending  over  the  sooty 
stove  listening  to  the  ceaseless  voice  of 
the  wind  as  it  beat  and  brushed,  whis 
pered,  moaned,  and  piped  or  screamed 
around  the  windows  and  eaves — this  was 
their  life,  varied  with  an  occasional  visit 
to  the  store  or  the  post-office,  or  by  the 
call  of  a  neighbour.  It  is  easy  to  conceive 
that  Flaxen 's  bright  letters  were  like 
bursts  of  bird-song  in  their  loneliness. 
Many  of  the  young  men,  their  neighbours, 
went  back  East  to  spend  the  winter — back 
to  Michigan,  Iowa,  New  York,  or  else 
where. 

"  Ans,  why  don't  you  go  back  an'  visit 
your  folks?"  asked  Bert,  one  day.  "  I'll 
take  care  o'  things." 

"  Wai,  the  fact  is,  I've  be'n  away  so  long 
they  don't  care  whether  I'm  alive  er  dead. 
I  ain't  got  no  near  relatives  except  a  sis 
ter,  an'  she's  got  all  the  fam'ly  she  can 
'tend  to." 

"  Same  here.     We  ain't  very  affection- 


90  B  Xittle  IKorsfc. 

ate,  anyway;  our  fam'ly  and  I  don't 
write.  Still  I'd  like  to  go  back,  just  to 
see  how  they  all  are." 

"Why  not  go?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  guess  I  must 
one  o'  these  days.  I've  kind  o'  be'n 
waitin'  till  we  got  into  a  little  better 
shape.  I  hate  to  go  back  poor." 

"So  do  I.  It's  hard  work  f'r  me  to 
give  up  beat;  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  it  yet 
awhile." 

Sometimes  a  neighbour  dropped  in  dur 
ing  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  on  pleas 
ant  days  they  would  harness  up  the  team 
and  take  a  drive  down  to  the  store  and  the 
post-office;  but  mainly  they  vegetated 
like  a  couple  of  huge  potatoes  in  a  cellar, 
as  did  most  of  the  settlers.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do. 

It  was  the  worst  winter  since  the  first 
that  they  had  spent  in  the  country.  The 
snow  seemed  never  still.  It  slid,  streamed, 
rose  in  the  air  ceaselessly;  it  covered  the 
hay,  drifted  up  the  barn  door,  swept  the 
fields  bare,  and,  carrying  the  dirt  of  the 
ploughed  fields  with  it,  built  huge  black 


"  ffiacbing "  it  Bgam.  91 

drifts  wherever  there  was  a  wind-break, 
corn-field,  or  other  obstruction. 

There  were  moments  when  Bert  was 
well-nigh  desperate.  Only  contact  with 
hard  work  and  cold  winds  saved  him.  He 
was  naturally  a  more  ambitious,  more 
austere  man  than  Anson.  He  was  not 
content  to  vegetate,  but  longed  to  escape. 
He  felt  that  he  was  wasting  his  life. 

It  was  in  December  that  the  letter  first 
came  from  Flaxen  which  mentioned  Will 
Kendall. 

O  boys !  I  had  the  best  time.  We  had  a 
party  at  our  house  and  lots  of  boys  came  and 
girls  too,  and  they  were  nice,  the  boys,  I 
mean.  Will  Kendall  he  is  the  nicest  feller 
you  ever  seen.  He  has  got  black  eyes  and 
brown  hair  and  a  gold  watch-chain  with  a 
locket  with  some  girl's  hair  in  it,  and  he  said 
it  was  his  sister's  hair,  but  I  told  him  I  didn't 
believe  it,  do  you?  We  had  cake  and  pop 
corn  and  lasses  candy  ;  and  Will  he  took  me 
out  to  supper. 

Bert  was  reading  the  letter,  and  at  this 
point  he  stopped  and  raised  his  eyes,  and 
the  two  men  gazed  at  each  other  without 


92  &  xittle  Worsfc. 

a  word  for  a  long  time.  Then  Anson 
laughed. 

"  She's  gittin'  over  her  homesickness. 
She's  all  right  now  she's  got  out  to  a  so 
ciable." 

After  that  there  was  hardly  a  letter  that 
did  not  mention  Kendall  in  some  inno 
cent  fashion  among  the  other  boys  and 
girls  who  took  part  in  the  sleigh-rides, 
parties,  and  sociables.  But  the  morbidly 
acute  Bert,  if  he  saw,  said  nothing,  and 
Anson  did  not  see. 

"Who  d'  y's'pose  this  Kendall  is?" 
asked  Anson,  one  night  late  in  the  winter, 
of  Gearheart,  who  was  reading  the  paper 
while  his  companion  reread  a  letter  from 
Flaxen.  "  Seems  to  me  she's  writin'  a 
good  'eal  about  him  lately." 

"  Oh,  some  slick  little  dry-goods  clerk 
or  druggist,"  said  Bert,  with  unwarrant 
able  irritation. 

"  She  seems  to  have  a  good  'eal  to  say 
about  him,  anyway,"  repeated  Anson,  in 
a  meditative  way. 

"  Oh,  that's  natural  enough.  They  are 
two  young  folks  together,"  replied  Bert, 


"  it  B0atm  93 


with  a  careless  accent,  to  remove  any  sus 
picion  which  his  hasty  utterance  might 
have  raised  in  Anson's  mind. 

"Wai,  I  guess  you're  right,"  agreed 
Anson,  after  a  pause,  relieved.  This  relief 
was  made  complete  when  in  other  letters 
which  came  she  said  less  and  less  about 
Kendall.  If  they  had  been  more  experi 
enced,  they  would  have  been  disturbed  by 
this  suspicious  fact. 

Then  again,  when  Anson  wrote  asking 
"  What  has  become  of  that  Kendall  you 
wrote  so  much  about?"  she  replied  that 
he  was  there,  and  began  writing  of  him 
again  in  a  careless  sort  of  way,  with  the 
craft  of  woman  already  manifest  in  the 
change  of  front. 

Spring  came  again,  and  that  ever- 
recurring  miracle,  the  good  green  grass, 
sprang  forth  from  its  covering  of  ice  and 
snow,  up  from  its  hiding-place  in  the 
dark,  cold  sod. 

Again  the  two  men  set  to  work  fero 
ciously  at  the  seeding.  Up  early  in  the 
wide,  sweet  dawn,  toiling  through  the 
day  behind  harrow  and  seeder,  coming  in 


94  21  Xfttlc  IKorsfe, 

at  noon  to  a  poor  and  badly  cooked  meal, 
hurrying  back  to  the  field  and  working  till 
night,  coming  in  at  sundown  so  tired  that 
one  leg  could  hardly  be  dragged  by  the 
other — this  was  their  daily  life. 

One  day,  as  they  were  eating  their  sup 
per  of  sour  bread  and  canned  beans,  Gear- 
heart  irritatedly  broke  out:  "Ans,  why 
don't  you  git  married?  It  'u'd  simplify 
matters  a  good  'eal  if  you  should.  'Old 
Russ'  is  no  good." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  gittin' 
married?"  replied  Anson,  imperturbably 
pinching  off  the  cooked  part  of  the  loaf, 
skilfully  leaving  the  doughy  part. 

"  I  ain't  on  the  marry;  that's  all." 

"Neither  am  I." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be." 

"Don't  see  it." 

"  Well,  now,  let  me  show  it.  We  can't 
go  on  this  way.  I'm  gittin'  so  poor  you 
can  count  my  ribs  through  my  shirt. 
Jest  think  how  comfortable  it  would  make 
things!  No  more  awful  coffee;  no  more 
canned  baked  beans;  no  more  cussed,  in 
fernal,  everlastin',  leathery  flapjacks;  no 


"JSacbing"  it  again.  95 

more  soggy  bread — confound  it!"  Here 
he  seized  the  round  inner  part  of  the  loaf, 
from  which  the  crust  had  been  flaked,  and 
flung  it  through  the  open  door  far  down 
toward  the  garden. 

"Bert!  that's  the  last  bit  of  bread 
we've  got  in  the  house." 

"What's  the  odds?  We  couldn't  eat  it." 
"We  could  'a'  baked  it  over." 
"We  could  eat  dog,  but  we  don't,"  re 
plied   Bert  gloomily.      His  temper  was 
getting  frightful  of  late. 

"  We'll  be  all  right  when  Flaxen  comes 
back,"  said  Ans,  laughing. 

"  Say,  now,  you've  said  that  a  thousand 
times  this  winter.  You  know  well  enough 
Flaxen's  out  o'  this.  We  ain't  countin' 
on  her,"  blurted  Gearheart,  just  in  the 
mood  to  say  disagreeable  things. 

"Wha'  d'  y'  mean?  Ain't  she  comiu' 
back  in  June?" 

"  Probably;  but  she  won't  stay." 

"  No :  that's  so.     She'll  have  to  go  back 

in  September;  but  that's  three  months, 

an'  we  may  sell  out  by  that  time  if  we 

have  a  good   crop.     Anyway,  we'll   live 


96  B  Xittle  Iftorsfe. 

high  fer  a  spell.  We  ought  to  have  a  let 
ter  from  her  to-night,  hadn't  we?" 

"  I'm  goin'  down  to  see,  if  you'll  wash 
the  dishes." 

"  All  right.     Take  a  horse. " 

"No:  the  horses  are  tired.  I'll  foot 
it." 

"Wai,  ain't  you  too?" 

"Want  anythin'  from  the  store?" 

"Yes:  git  a  hunk  o'  bacon  an' some 
canned  corn,  tomatoes,  an'  some  canned 
salmon;  if  y'  think  we  can  stand  the 
pressure,  bring  home  a  can  o'  peaches." 

And  so  Gearheart  started  off  for  town 
in  the  dusk,  afoot,  in  order  to  spare  the 
horse,  as  though  he  had  not  himself 
walked  all  day  long  in  the  soft,  muddy 
ground.  The  wind  was  soft  and  moist, 
and  the  light  of  the  stars  coming  out  in 
the  east  fell  upon  his  upturned  eyes  with 
unspeakable  majesty.  Yet  he  saw  them 
but  dimly.  He  was  dreaming  of  a  face 
which  was  often  in  his  mind  now — a  face 
not  unlike  Flaxen's,  only  older,  more 
glorified,  more  womanly.  He  was  asking 
himself  some  searching  questions  to-night 


"  JBacbfng  "  it  Bgain.  97 

as  his  tired  limbs  dragged  themselves 
over  the  grassy  road. 

What  was  he  toiling  for,  anyway? 
What  mattered  all  this  terrible  tramping 
to  and  fro — was  it  an  end  or  only  a  means? 
Would  there  ever  come  anything  like 
satisfaction  of  desire?  Life  for  him  had 
been  a  silent,  gloomy,  and  almost  pur 
poseless  struggle.  He  had  not  looked 
forward  to  anything  very  definite,  though 
vaguely  he  had  hoped  for  something  bet 
ter. 

As  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  twinkling, 
yellow  lights  of  the  village  his  thoughts 
came  back  to  Flaxen  and  to  the  letter 
whicl^he  expected  to  receive  from  her. 
He  quickened  his  steps,  though  his  feet 
were  sore  and  his  limbs  stiff  and  lame. 

The  one  little  street  presented  its  usual 
Saturday-night  appearance.  Teams  were 
hitched  to  the  narrow  plank  walk  before 
the  battlemented  wooden  stores.  Men 
stood  here  and  there  in  listless  knots, 
smoking,  talking  of  the  weather  and  of 
seeding,  while  their  wives,  surrounded 
by  shy  children,  traded  within.  Being 


93  B  Xittle 


Saturday  night,  the  saloons  were  full  of 
men,  and  shouts  and  the  clink  of  beer- 
mugs  could  be  heard  at  intervals.  But 
the  larger  crowd  was  gathered  at  the 
post-office  :  uncouth  farmers  of  all  nation 
alities,  clerks,  land-sharks,  lawyers,  and 
giggling  girls  in  couples,  who  took  delight 
in  mingling  with  the  crowd. 

Judge  Sid  Balser  was  over  from  Boom- 
town,  and  was  talking  expansively  to  a 
crowd  of  "leading  citizens"  about  a, 
scheme  to  establish  a  horse-car  line  be 
tween  Boomtown  and  Belleplain. 

Colonel  Arran,  of  the  Belleplain  Ar 
gus,  in  another  corner,  not  ten  feet 
away,  was  saying  that  the  judge  ^as  "  a 
scoundrel,  a  blow-hard,  and  would  down 
his  best  lover  for  a  pewter  cent,"  to  all  of 
which  the  placid  judge  was  accustomed 
and  gave  no  heed. 

Bert  paid  no  attention  to  the  colonel  or 
to  the  judge,  or  to  any  of  this  buzzing. 
"  They  are  just  talking  to  hear  them 
selves  make  a  noise,  anyway.  They  talk 
about  building  up  the  country  —  they  who 
are  a  rope  and  a  grindstone  around  the 


"  JBacbing  "  it  Bgain.  99 

necks  of  the  rest  of  us,  who  do  the 
work." 

When  Gearheart  reached  his  box  he 
found  a  large,  square  letter  in  it,  and 
looking  at  it  saw  that  it  was  from  Flaxen 
directed  to  Anson.  "  Her  picture,  prob 
ably,"  he  said  as  he  held  it  up.  As  he 
was  pushing  rapidly  out  he  heard  a  half- 
drunken  fellow  say,  in  what  he  thought 
was  an  inaudible  tone : 

"  There's  Gearheart.  Wonder  what's 
become  of  his  little  Norsk." 

Gearheart  turned,  and  pushing  through 
the  crowd,  thrust  his  eyes  into  the  face  of 
the  speaker  with  a  glare  that  paralysed 
the  poor  fool. 

"What's  become  o'  your  sense?"  he 
snarled,  and  his  voice  had  in  it  a  carniv 
orous  note. 

With  this  warning  he  turned  contempt 
uously  and  passed  out,  leaving  the  dis 
comfited  rowdy  to  settle  accounts  with  his 
friends.  But  there  was  a  low  note  in  the 
ruffian's  voice,  an  insinuating  inflection, 
which  stayed  with  him  all  along  the  way 
home,  like  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth. 


ioo  B  Xfttle 


He  saw  by  the  aid  of  a  number  of  these 
side-lights  of  late  that  Flaxen  never  could 
come  back  to  them  in  the  old  relation; 
but  how  could  she  come  back? 

Gearheart  stopped  and  gazed  thought 
fully  upward.  She  must  come  back  as 
the  wife  of  Ans  or  himself.  "  Pooh  !  she 
is  only  a  child,"  he  said,  snapping  his 
finger  and  walking  on.  But  the  insist 
ence  remained.  "  She  is  not  a  child  —  she 
is  a  maiden,  soon  to  be  a  woman  ;  she  has 
no  relatives,  no  home  to  go  to  but  ours 
after  her  two  or  three  years  of  schooling 
are  over.  It  must  still  be  her  home; 
no  breath  of  scandal  shall  touch  her  if  I 
can  prevent  it  ;  and  after  her  two  years 
are  up"  —  after  a  long,  motionless  reverie 
he  strode  forward  —  "  she  shall  choose  be 
tween  us." 

There  had  grown  up  between  the  two 
friends  of  late  a  constraint,  or,  to  be  more 
exact,  Gearheart  had  held  himself  in  be 
fore  his  friend,  had  not  discussed  these 
problems  with  him  at  all.  "  Ans  is  just 
like  a  boy,"  he  had  said  to  himself;  "he 
don't  seem  to  understand  the  case,  and  I 


"  it  B^in. 


don't  know  as  it's  my  duty  to  enlighten 
him  ;  he  either  feels  very  sure  about  her, 
or  he  has  not  understood  the  situation." 

He  was  thinking  this  now  as  he  strode 
across  the  spongy  sod  toward  the  lighted 
windows  of  the  shanty.  The  air  was 
damp  and  chill,  for  the  ice  was  not  yet 
out  of  the  ponds  or  swamps  of  tall  grasses. 
An  occasional  prairie-cock  sent  forth  a 
muffled,  drowsy  "  boom"  ;  low-hung  flights 
of  geese,  gabbling  anxiously,  or  the  less- 
orderly  ducks,  with  hissing  wings,  swept 
by  overhead,  darkly  limned  against  the 
stars.  There  was  a  strange  charm  in  the 
raw  air.  The  weary  man  almost  forgot 
his  pain  as  he  drew  deep  breathings  of  the 
night. 

It  was  significant  of  the  restraint  that 
had  grown  up  between  him  and  Anson 
that  he  held  the  letter  from  Flaxen  un 
opened  in  his  hand  simply  because  it  was 
directed  to  his  friend.  He  knew  that  it 
was  as  much  to  him  as  to  Anson,  and 
yet,  feeling  as  he  had  of  late,  he  would 
not  open  it,  for  he  would  have  been  angry 
if  Anson  had  opened  one  directed  to 


xmie  IKorsfe. 


him.  He  simply  judged  Anson  by  him 
self. 

The  giant  was  asleep  when  he  entered. 
His  great,  shaggy  head  lay  beside  the  lamp 
on  his  crossed  arms.  Bert  laid  the  letter 
down  beside  him  and  shook  him. 

"Hello!  got  back,  hey?"  the  sleeper 
said,  rousing  up  sluggishly.  "  Anything?" 
Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  letter.  "  Oh, 
bless  her  little  heart!  Wonder  what  it  is? 
Picture,  bet  my  hat!"  Here  he  opened 
it. 

"  Gee-whittiker,  thunder  and  turf,  gosh- 
all  —  Friday!  —  look  a-  there!  Ain't  she 
growed!"  he  yelled,  holding  the  picture 
by  the  corner  and  moving  it  into  all  sorts 
of  positions.  "  That's  my  little  girl  —  our 
Flaxen;  she  can't  grow  so  purty  but  what 
I'd  know  her.  See  that  hair  done  up  on 
the  top  of  her  head  !  Look  at  that  dress, 
an'  the  thingumajigs  around  her  neck! 
Oh,  she's  gittin'  there,  Smith,  hey?" 

"She's  changing  pretty  fast,"  said 
Bert  listlessly. 

"Changin'  fast!  Say,  ol'  man,  what's 
the  matter  with  you?  Are  y'  sick?" 


"  it  Baim  103 


"  I'm  played  out,  that's  all." 

"Darn  my  skin!  I  should  think  y' 
would  be,  draggin'  all  day,  an'  then 
walkin'  all  o'  four  mile  to  the  post-office. 
Jest  lay  down  on  the  bed  there,  oP  boy, 
while  I  read  the  letter  to  yeh.  Say,  ol' 
man,  don't  you  git  up  in  the  mornin'  till 
you  please.  I'll  look  after  the  breakfast," 
insisted  Anson,  struck  with  remorse  by 
the  expression  on  Bert's  face.  "  But  here's 
the  letter.  Short  an'  sweet." 


DEAR  BOYS  [Bless  the  little  fist  that  wrote 
that !]  .  I  send  my  picture.  I  think  it  is  a 
nice  one.  The  girls  say  it  flatters  me,  but 
Will  says  it  don't  [What  the  devil  do  we  care 
what  Will  says?] — I  guess  it  does,  don't  you? 
I  wish  I  had  a  picture  of  you  both ;  I  want  to 
show  the  girls  how  handsome  you  are  [she 
means  me,  of  course.  No,  confound  it]  how 
handsome  you  are  both  of  you.  I  wish  you 
would  send  me  your  pictures  both  of  you.  I 
ain't  got  much  to  say.  I  will  write  again 
soon.  ELGA. 

Bert  looked  at  the  picture  over  Anson 's 
shoulder,  but  did  not  seem  to  pay  much 
attention  to  it. 


104  &  xittle  Worsfc. 

"  Wai,  I'll  go  out  an'  shut  the  barn  door. 
Nights  git  cold  after  the  sun  goes  down. 
You  needn't  peel  the  'taters  to-night. 
We'll  bake  'em,  brussels  an'  all,  to-mor 
row  mornin'." 

When  Anson  had  gone,  Bert  snatched 
up  the  picture  with  great  eagerness  and 
gazed  upon  it  with  a  steady,  devouring 
glance.  How  womanly  she  looked  with 
her  hair  done  up  so,  and  the  broad,  fair 
face  and  full  bosom. 

He  heard  Anson  returning  from  the 
barn,  and  hastily  laid  the  picture  down, 
and  when  Anson  entered  was  apparently 
dropping  off  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER    X. 

FLAXEN   COMES   HOME   ON   A   VACATION. 


T  was  in  June,  just  before  the 
ending  of  the  school,  that 
Flaxen  first  began  to  write 
about  delaying  her  return. 
Anson  was  wofully  disappointed.  He 
had  said  all  along  that  she  would  make 
tracks  for  home  just  as  soon  as  school  was 
out,  and  he  had  calculated  just  when  she 
would  arrive;  and  on  the  second  day  af 
ter  the  close  of  school  for  the  summer  he 
drove  down  to  the  train  to  meet  her. 
She  did  not  come,  but  he  got  a  letter 
which  said  that  one  of  her  friends  wanted 
her  to  stay  two  weeks  with  her,  until  after 
the  Fourth  of  July. 

"  She's  an  awful  nice  girl,  and  we  will 
have  a  grand  time ;  she  has  a  rich  father 
and  a  piano  and  a  pony  and  a  buggy.  It 
will  just  be  grand." 

8  105 


106  B  Xtttle  IRorsfc. 

"  I  don't  blame  her  none,"  sighed  An- 
son  to  Bert.  "  I  don't  want  her  to  come 
away  while  she's  enjoyin'  herself.  It'll 
be  a  big  change  for  her  to  come  back  an' 
cook  f 'r  us  old  mossbacks  after  bein'  at 
school  an'  in  good  company  all  these 
months." 

He  was  plainly  disturbed.  Her  vaca 
tion  was  going  to  be  all  too  short  at  the 
best,  and  he  was  so  hungry  for  the  sight 
of  her !  Still,  he  could  not  blame  her  for 
staying,  under  the  circumstances;  as  he 
told  Bert,  his  feelings  did  not  count.  He 
just  wanted  her  to  get  all  she  could  out  of 
life;  "there  ain't  much,  anyway,  for  us 
poor  devils,  but  what  little  there  is  we 
want  her  to  have." 

The  Fourth  of  July  was  the  limit  of  her 
stay,  and  on  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth 
Anson  drove  regularly  to  the  evening  train 
to  meet  her. 

On  the  third  day  another  letter  came, 
saying  that  she  would  reach  home  the  next 
Monday.  With  this  Anson  rode  home  in 
triumph.  During  the  next  few  days  he 
went  to  the  barber's  and  had  his  great 


tflajen  Comes  Ibome.  107 

beard  shaved  off.  "  Made  me  look  so  old," 
he  explained,  seeing  Bert's  wild  start  of 
surprise.  "  I've  be'n  carryin'  that  mop 
o'  hair  round  so  long  I'd  kind  o'  got  into 
the  notion  o'  bein'  old  myself.  Got  a 
kind  o'  crick  in  the  back,  y'  know.  But 
I  ain't;  I  ain't  ten  years  older'n  you  be." 

And  he  was  not.  His  long  blond  mous 
tache,  shaved  beard,  and  clipped  hair 
made  a  new  man  of  him,  and  a  very  hand 
some  man,  too,  in  a  large  way.  He  was 
curiously  embarrassed  by  Bert's  prolonged 
scrutiny,  and  said  jocosely: 

"We've  got  to  brace  up  a  little  now. 
Company  boarders  comin',  young  lady 
from  St.  Peter's  Seminary,  city  airs  an' 
all  that  sort  o'  thing.  Don't  you  let  me 
see  you  eatin'  pie  with  y'r  knife.  I'll 
break  the  shins  of  any  man  that  feeds 
himself  with  anythin'  'cept  the  silver- 
plated  forks  I've  bought." 

Flaxen  had  been  gone  almost  a  year, 
and  a  year  counts  for  much  at  her  age. 
Besides,  Anson  had  exaggerated  ideas  of 
the  amount  of  learning  she  could  absorb 
in  a  year  at  a  boarding-seminary,  and 


108  u  TLittle  IKorefe. 

he  had  also  a  very  vague  idea  of  what 
"  society  "  was  in  St.  Peter,  although  he 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  to  the  necessi 
ty  of  "  bracing  up"  a  little  and  getting 
things  generally  into  shape.  He  bought 
a  new  suit  of  clothes  and  a  second-hand 
two-seated  carriage,  notwithstanding  the 
sarcastic  reflection  of  his  partner,  who 
was  making  his  own  silent  comment  upon 
this  thing. 

"The  paternal  business  is  ausk&rspeelt^ 
he  said  to  himself.  "  Ans  is  goin'  in  on 
shape  now.  Well,  it's  all  right;  nobody's 
business  but  ours.  Let  her  go,  Smith; 
but  they  won't  be  no  talk  in  this  neigh 
bourhood  when  they  get  hold  of  what's 
goin'  on — oh,  no!"  He  smiled  grimly. 
"We  can  stand  it,  I  guess;  but  it'll  be 
hard  on  her.  Ans  is  a  little  too  previous. 
It's  too  soon  to  spring  this  trap  on  the 
poor  little  thing." 

They  stood  side  by  side  on  the  platform 
the  next  Monday  when  the  train  rolled 
into  the  station  at  Boomtown,  panting 
with  fatigue  from  its  long  run.  Flaxen 
caught  sight  of  Bert  first  as  she  sprang  off 


fflajen  Comes  1bome,  109 

the  train,  and  running  to  him,  kissed  him 
without  much  embarrassment.  Then  she 
looked  around,  saying: 

"  Where's  oP  pap?     Didn't  he " 

"  Why,  Flaxen,  don't  ye  know  me?"  he 
cried  out  at  her  elbow. 

She  knew  his  voice,  but  his  shaven 
face,  so  much  more  youthful,  was  so 
strange  that  she  knew  him  only  by  his 
eyes  laughing  down  into  hers.  Never 
theless  she  kissed  him  doubtfully. 

''Oh,  what've  you  done?  You've 
shaved  off  your  whiskers;  you  don't  look 
a  bit  natural.  I " 

She  was  embarrassed,  almost  frightened, 
at  the  change  in  him.  He  "  looked  so 
queer  " ;  his  fair,  untroubled,  smiling  face 
and  blond  moustache  made  him  look 
younger  than  Bert. 

"Nev*  mind  that!  She'll  grow  again 
if  y'  like  it  better.  Get  int'  this  new 
buggy — it's  ours.  They  ain't  no  flies  on 
us  to-day;  not  many,"  said  Ans  in  high 
glee,  elaborately  assisting  her  to  the  car 
riage,  not  appreciating  the  full  meaning 
of  the  situation. 


no  B  Xittle  IRorsfc, 

As  they  rode  home  he  was  extravagantly 
gay.  He  sat  beside  her,  and  she  drove, 
wild  with  delight  at  the  prairie,  the 
wheat,  the  gulls,  everything. 

"  Ain't  no  dust  on  our  clo'es,"  said  Ans, 
coughing,  winking  at  Bert,  and  brushing 
off  with  an  elaborately  finical  gesture  an 
imaginary  fleck  from  his  knee  and  elbow. 
"Ain't  we  togged  out?  I  guess  nobody 
said  'boo'  to  us  down  to  St.  Peter,  eh?" 

"You  like  my  clo'es?"  said  Flaxen, 
with  charming  directness. 

"You  bet!     They're  scrumptious." 

"Well,  they  ought  to  be;  they're  my 
best,  except  my  white  dress.  I  thought 
you'd  like  'em;  I  wore  'ein  a-purpose." 

"  Like  'em?  They're — you're  jest  as 
purty  as  a  red  lily  er  a  wild  rose  in  the 
wheat — ahem!  Ain't  she,  Bert,  ol'  boy? 
We're  jest  about  starvin'  to  death,  we  are. " 

"I  knew  you'd  be.  What '11  I  stir  up 
for  supper?  Biscuits?" 

"  Urn,  urn !  Say,  what  y'  s'pose  I've  got 
to  go  with  'em?" 

"Honey." 

"Oh,    you're  too  sharp,"  wailed   Ans, 


3FIajen  Comes  1bome,  in 

while  Flaxen  went  off  into  a  peal  of  laugh 
ter.  "  Say,  Bert's  be'n  in  the  damnedest 
— excuse  me — plaguedest  temper  fer  the 
last  two  munce  as  you  ever  did  see." 

While  this  chatter  was  going  on  Bert 
sat  silent  and  unsmiling  on  the  back  seat. 
He  was  absorbed  in  seeing  the  exquisite 
colour  that  played  in  her  cheek  and  the 
equally  charming  curves  of  her  figure. 
She  was  well  dressed  and  was  wonderfully 
mature.  He  was  saying  to  himself :  "  Ans 
ain't  got  no  more  judgment  than  a  boy. 
We  can't  keep  that  girl  here.  More'n 
that,  the  girl  never'll  be  contented  again, 

unless "  He  did  not  allow  himself  to 

go  farther.  He  dared  not  even  think 
farther. 

They  had  a  merry  time  that  night, 
quite  like  old  times.  The  biscuits  were 
light  and  flaky,  the  honey  was  delight 
some,  and  the  milk  and  butter  (procured 
specially)  were  fresh.  They  shouted  in 
laughter  as  Flaxen  insisted  on  their  eating 
potatoes  with  a  fork,  and  opposed  the  use 
of  the  knife  in  scooping  up  the  honey 
from  their  plates!  Even  the  saturnine 


112  B  Xittle  IKorsfe, 

Bert  forgot  his  gloom  and  laughed  too, 
as  Ans  laboriously  dipped  his  honey  with 
a  fork,  and,  finally  growing  desperate, 
split  a  biscuit  in  half,  and  in  the  good  old 
boyish  way  sopped  it  in  the  honey. 

"There,  that's  the  Christian  way  of 
doing  things!"  he  exulted,  while  Flaxen 
laughed.  How  bright  she  was — how 
strange  she  acted!  There  were  moments 
when  she  embarrassed  them  by  some  new 
womanly  grace  or  accomplishment,  some 
new  air  which  she  had  caught  from  her 
companions  or  teachers  at  school.  It  was 
truly  amazing  how  much  she  had  absorbed 
outside  of  her  regular  studies.  She  indeed 
was  no  longer  a  girl ;  she  was  a  young  wo 
man,  and  to  them  a  beautiful  one. 

Not  a  day  passed  without  some  added 
surprise  which  made  Anson  exult  and  say, 
"  She's  gettin'  her  money's  worth  down 
there — no  two  ways  about  that." 


CHAPTER  XL 

FLAXEN   GROWS   RESTLESS. 


UT  as  the  excitement  of  getting 
back  died  out,  poor  Flaxen 
grew  restless,  moody,  and  un 
accountable.  Before,  she  had 
always  been  the  same  cheery,  frank,  boy 
ish  creature.  As  Bert  said,  **  You  know 
where  to  find  her."  Now  she  was  full  of 
strange  tempers  and  moods.  She  would 
work  most  furiously  for  a  time,  and  then 
suddenly  fall  dreaming,  looking  away  out 
on  the  shimmering  plain  toward  the  east. 
At  Bert's  instigation,  a  middle-aged 
widow  had  been  hired,  at  a  fabulous 
price,  to  come  and  do  the  most  of  the 
work  for  them,  thus  releasing  Flaxen 
from  the  weight  of  the  hard  work,  which 
perhaps  was  all  the  worse  for  her.  Hard 
work  might  have  prevented  the  unbear 
able,  sleepless  pain  within.  She  hated 

113 


114  a  Xittle 


the  slatternly  Mrs.  Green  at  once  for  her 
meddling  with  her  affairs,  though  the 
good  woman  meant  no  offence.  She  was 
jocose  in  the  broad  way  of  middle-aged 
persons,  to  whom  a  love-affair  is  legiti 
mate  food  for  raillery. 

But  Gearheart's  keen  eye  was  on  Flaxen 
as  well.  He  saw  how  eagerly  she  watched 
for  the  mail  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays, 
and  how  she  sought  a  quiet  place  at  once 
in  order  to  read  and  dream  over  her  let 
ters.  She  was  restless  a  day  or  two  be 
fore  a  certain  letter  came,  with  an  eager, 
excited,  expectant  air.  Then,  after  read 
ing  it,  she  was  absent-minded,  flighty  in 
conversation,  and  at  last  listlessly  uneasy, 
moving  slowly  about  from  one  thing  to 
another,  in  a  kind  of  restless  inability  to 
take  continued  interest  in  anything. 

All  this,  if  it  came  to  the  attention  of 
Anson  at  all,  was  laid  to  the  schooling  the 
girl  had  had. 

"  Of  course  it'll  seem  a  little  slow  to 
you,  Flaxie,  but  harvestin'  is  comin'  on 
soon,  an'  then  things'll  be  a  little  more 
lively." 


fflajen  Grows  IRestlees.          us 

But  Gearheart  was  not  so  slow-witted. 
He  had  had  sisters  and  girl  cousins,  and 
knew  "the  symptoms,"  as  Mrs.  Green 
would  have  put  it.  He  noticed  that  when 
Flaxen  read  her  letters  to  them  there  was 
one  which  she  carefully  omitted.  He 
knew  that  this  was  the  letter  which  meant 
the  most  to  her.  He  saw  how  those  let 
ters  affected  her,  and  thought  he  had 
divined  in  what  way. 

One  day  when  Flaxen,  after  reading 
her  letters,  sprang  up  and  ran  into  her 
bedroom,  her  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears, 
Gearheart  crooked  his  finger  at  Ans,  and 
they  went  out  to  the  barn  together. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  on  an  intoler 
able  day  peculiar  to  the  Dakota  plain. 
A  frightfully  hot,  withering,  and  power 
ful  wind  was  abroad.  The  thermometer 
stood  nearly  a  hundred  in  the  shade,  and 
the  wind,  so  far  from  being  a  relief,  was 
suffocating  because  of  its  heat  and  the 
dust  it  swept  along  with  it. 

The  heavy-headed  grain  and  russet 
grass  writhed  and  swirled  as  if  in  agony, 
and  dashed  high  in  waves  of  green  and 


no  a  Xittle 


yellow.  The  corn-leaves  had  rolled  up 
into  long  cords  like  the  lashes  of  a  whip, 
and  beat  themselves  into  tatters  on  the 
dry,  smooth  spot  their  blows  had  made 
beneath  them  ;  they  seemed  ready  to  turn 
to  flame  in  the  pitiless,  furnace-like  blast. 
Everywhere  in  the  air  was  a  silver-white, 
impalpable  mist,  which  gave  to  the  cloud 
less  sky  a  whitish  cast.  The  glittering 
gulls  were  the  only  living  things  that  did 
not  move  listlessly  and  did  not  long  for 
rain.  They  soared  and  swooped,  exult 
ing  in  the  sounding  wind  ;  now  throwing 
themselves  upon  it,  like  a  swimmer,  then 
darting  upward  with  miraculous  ease,  to 
dip  again  into  the  shining,  hissing,  tu 
multuous  waves  of  the  grass. 

Along  the  roads  prodigious  trains  of 
dust  rose  hundreds  of  feet  in  the  air,  and 
drove  like  vast  caravans  with  the  wind. 
So  powerful  was  the  blast  that  men  hesi 
tated  about  going  out  with  carriages,  and 
everybody  watched  feverishly,  expecting 
to  see  fire  break  out  on  the  prairie  and 
sweep  everything  before  it.  Work  in  the 
fields  had  stopped  long  before  dinner,  and 


3Plajen  Grows  IRestlesa.         in 

the  farmers  waited,  praying  or  cursing, 
for  the  wheat  was  just  at  the  right  point 
to  be  blighted. 

As  the  two  men  went  out  to  the  shed 
side  by  side,  they  looked  out  on  the 
withering  wheat-stalks  and  corn-leaves 
with  gloomy  eyes. 

"  Another  day  like  this,  an'  they  won't 
be  wheat  enough  in  this  whole  county  to 
make  a  cake,"  said  Anson,  with  a  calm 
intonation,  which  after  all  betrayed  the 
anxiety  he  felt.  They  sat  down  in  the 
wagon-shed  near  the  horses'  mangers. 
They  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  wind 
and  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  horses  eat 
ing  their  hay,  a  good  while  before  either 
of  them  spoke  again.  Finally  Bert  said 
sullenly : 

"  We  can't  put  up  hay  such  a  day  as 
this.  You  couldn't  haul  it  home  under 
lock  an'  key  while  this  infernal  wind  is 
blowin'.  It's  gittin'  worse,  if  anythin'." 

Anson  said  nothing,  but  waited  to  hear 
what  Bert  had  brought  him  out  here  for. 
Bert  speared  away  with  his  knife  at  a  strip 
of  board.  Anson  sat  on  a  wagon-tongue, 


118  a  TLittle 


his  elbows  on  his  knees,  looking  intently 
at  the  grave  face  of  his  companion.  The 
horses  ground  cheerily  at  the  hay. 

"  Ans,  we've  got  to  send  Flaxen  hack  to 
St.  Peter;  she's  so  homesick  she  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

Ans'  eyes  fell. 

"  I  know  it.  I've  he'n  hopin'  she'd  git 
over  that,  but  it's  purty  tough  on  her, 
after  bein'  with  the  young  folks  in  the 
city  f  'r  a  year,  to  come  back  here  on  a 
farm."  He  did  not  finish  for  a  moment. 
"  But  she  can't  stand  it.  I'd  looked  ahead 
to  havin'  her  here  till  September,  but  I 
can't  stand  it  to  see  her  cryin'  like  she 
did  to-day.  We've  got  to  give  up  the 
idee  o'  her  livin'  here.  I  don't  see  any 
other  way  but  to  sell  out  an'  go  back  East 
somewhere." 

Bert  saw  that  Anson  was  still  ignorant  of 
the  real  state  of  affairs,  but  thought  he 
would  say  nothing  for  the  present. 

"  Yes:  that's  the  best  thing  we  can  do. 
We'll  send  her  right  back,  an'  take  our 
chances  on  the  crops.  We  can  git  enough 
to  live  on  an'  keep  her  at  school,  I  guess." 


jflajen  Grows  IRestlees.          no 

They  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  while 
the  wind  tore  round  the  shed,  Bert  spear 
ing  at  the  stick,  and  Anson  watching  the 
hens  as  they  vainly  tried  to  navigate  in 
the  wind.  Finally  Anson  spoke: 

"  The  fact  is,  Bert,  this  ain't  no  place 
f'r  a  woman,  anyway — such  a  woman  as 
Flaxen's  gittin'  to  be.  They  ain't  noth- 
in'  goin'  on,  nothin'  to  see  'r  hear.  You 
can't  expect  a  girl  to  be  contented  with 
this  country  after  she's  seen  any  other. 
No  trees;  no  flowers;  jest  a  lot  o'  little 
shanties  full  o'  flies." 

"  I  knew  all  that,  Ans,  a  year  ago.  I 
knew  she'd  never  come  back  here,  but  I 
jest  said  it's  the  thing  to  do — give  her  a 
chance,  if  we  don't  have  a  cent;  now  let's 
go  back  to  the  house  an'  tell  her  she 
needn't  stay  here  if  she  don't  want  to." 

"  Wha'  d'  ye  s'pose  was  in  that  letter?" 

"  Couldn't  say.  Some  girl's  description 
of  a  pic-nic  er  somethin'."  Bert  was  not 
yet  ready  to  tell  what  he  knew.  When 
they  returned  to  the  house  the  girl  was 
still  invisible,  in  her  room.  Mrs.  Green 
was  busy  clearing  up  the  dinner-dishes. 


120  B  Xittle  IRorefe. 

"  I  don't  know's  I  ever  see  such  a  wind 
back  to  Michigan.  Seems  as  if  it  Vd 
blow  the  hair  off  y'r  head." 

"  Oh,  this  ain't  nothin'.  This  is  a  gen 
tle  zephyr.  Wait  till  y'  see  a  wind." 

"  Wai,  I  hope  to  goodness  I  won't  never 
see  a  wind.  Zephyrs  is  all  I  can  mortally 
stand." 

Anson  went  through  the  little  sitting- 
room  and  knocked  on  Flaxen 's  door. 

"  Flaxie,  we  want  to  talk  to  yeh. "  There 
was  no  answer,  and  he  came  back  and  sat 
down.  Bert  pointed  to  the  letter  which 
Flaxen  had  flung  down  on  the  table.  The 
giant  took  it,  folded  it  up,  and  called, 
"  Here's  y'r  letter,  babe." 

The  door  opened  a  little,  and  a  faint, 
tearful  voice  said : 

"Bead  it,  if  ye  want  to,  boys."  Then 
the  door  closed  tightly  again,  and  they 
heard  her  fling  herself  on  the  bed.  An 
son  handed  the  letter  to  Bert,  who  read 
it  in  a  steady  voice. 

DEAR  DARLING  :  I  have  good  news  to  tell 
you.  My  uncle  was  out  from  Wisconsin  to 
see  me,  and  he  was  pleased  with  what  I  had 


fflay.cn  ©rows  IRestless. 


done,  and  he  bought  out  Mr.  Ford,  and  gave 
me  the  whole  half  interest.  I'm  to  pay  him 
back  when  I  please.  Ain't  that  glorious? 
Now  we  can  get  married  right  off,  can't  we, 
darling?  So  you  just  show  this  letter  to  your 
father,  and  tell  him  how  things  stand.  I've 
got  a  good  business.  The  drug-store  is  worth 
$1,200  a  year—  my  half—  but  knock  off  fifty 
per  cent  and  we  could  live  nicely.  Don't 
you  think  so?  I  want  to  see  you  so  bad,  and 
talk  things  over.  If  you  can't  come  back  soon, 
I  will  come  on.  Write  soon. 

Yours  till  death, 

WILL. 

From  the  first  word  Anson  winced,  grew 
perplexed,  then  suffered.  His  head 
drooped  forward  on  his  hands,  his  elbows 
rested  on  his  vast,  spread  knees.  He 
drew  his  breath  with  a  long,  grieving 
gasp.  Bert  read  on  steadily  to  the  end, 
then  glanced  at  his  companion  with  a  deep 
frown  darkening  his  face;  but  he  was  not 
taken  by  surprise.  He  had  not  had  pa 
ternal  affection  change  to  the  passion  of  a 
lover  only  to  have  it  swept  down  like  a 
half-opened  flower.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  Anson  writhed  in  mental 

agony.     He  saw  it  all.     It  meant  eternal 
y 


122  B  Xittle  morsfc, 

separation.  It  meant  a  long  ache  in  his 
heart  which  time  could  scarcely  deaden 
into  a  tolerable  pain. 

Gearheart  rose  and  went  out,  unwilling 
to  witness  the  agony  of  his  friend  and 
desiring  himself  to  be  alone.  Anson  sat 
motionless,  with  his  hands  covering  his 
wet  eyes,  going  over  the  past  and  trying 
to  figure  the  future. 

He  began  in  that  storm:  felt  again 
the  little  form  and  face  of  the  wailing 
child;  thought  of  the  frightful  struggle 
against  the  wind  and  snow;  of  the 
touch  of  the  little  hands  and  feet;  of 
her  pretty  prattle  and  gleeful  laughter; 
then  of  her  helpful  and  oddly-womanish 
ways  as  she  grew  older ;  of  the  fresh,  clear 
voice  calling  him  "pap"  and  ordering 
him  about  with  a  roguish  air;  of  her 
beauty  now,  when  for  the  first  time  he 
had  begun  to  hope  that  she  might  be 
something  dearer  to  him. 

How  could  he  live  without  her?  She 
had  grown  to  be  a  part  of  him.  He  had 
long  ceased  to  think  of  the  future  with 
out  her.  As  he  sat  so,  the  bedroom  door 


fflajen  0rows  IRestless.         123 

opened,  and  Flaxen 's  tearful  face  looked 
out  at  him.  He  did  not  seem  to  hear, 
and  she  stole  up  to  him  and,  putting  her 
arm  around  his  neck,  laid  her  cheek  on 
his  head — a  dear,  familiar,  childish  gest 
ure,  used  when  she  wished  to  propitiate 
him.  He  roused  himself  and  put  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  tried  to  speak,  and 
finally  said  in  a  sorry  attempt  at  humor, 
wofully  belied  by  the  tears  on  his  face 
and  the  choking  in  his  throat : 

"  You  tell  that  feller — if  he  wants  ye, 
to  jest  come  an' — git  ye — that's  all!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

FLAXEN   SAYS   GOOD-BYE. 


LGA  went  back  to  her  friends, 
the  Holts,  in  the  course  of  a 
week.  It  hurt  Anson  terribly 
to  see  how  eager  she  was  to 
get  away,  and  he  grew  a  little  bitter — a 
quality  of  temper  Bert  did  not  know  he 
possessed. 

"What's  that  little  whipper-snapper 
ever  done  for  her,  that  she  should  leave  us 
in  the  shade  f'r  him — f'rget  us  an'  all 
we've  done  f'r  her,  an'  climb  out  an'  leave 
us  just  at  his  wink?  It  beats  me,  but 
it's  all  right.  I  don't  blame  her  if  she 
feels  so — only  it  does  seem  queer,  now 
don't  it?" 

"It  does,  that's  a  fact — 'specially  the 
idea  of  leaving  us  for  a  thing  like  that." 
After  arriving  at  a  complete  understand- 

124 


125 


ing  of  the  matter,  they  said  no  more 
about  it,  but  went  to  work  to  make  every 
thing  as  pleasant  for  Flaxen  as  possible. 
Again  they  rode  down  to  the  station  with 
her,  down  past  the  wide,  level  fields  of 
grain  which  the  blazing  sun  had  ripened 
prematurely.  Again  they  parted  from 
her  at  the  train,  but  this  time  the  girl 
was  eager  to  go  ;  and  yet  a  peculiar  feel 
ing  of  sadness  was  mixed  with  her  eager 
ness  to  be  off. 

"Now,  boys,  you'll  come  down  just  as 
soon  as  you  can  this  fall,  won't  you?"  she 
said,  tearfully,  as  they  stood  in.  the  aisle  of 
the  car.  "  I  wish't  you'd  sell  out  an'  come 
back  there  an'  live  —  I  want  you  to." 

"Well,  we'll  try,"  Anson  said,  speaking 
with  difficulty,  the  lump  in  his  throat  was 
so  big  and  so  dry. 

They  rode  home  in  silence  again,  but 
this  time  there  was  something  darker  and 
more  sullen  in  their  thoughts. 

"  Well,  Ans,  that  settles  it.  We're  or 
phaned  again,  sure."  He  tried  to  give 
a  little  touch  of  jocoseness  to  it,  but  failed 
miserably. 


126  B  Xittle  IKorsfe, 

"Yes,"  Anson  sighed  deeply,  "we'll 
haf  t'  stand  it,  I  s'pose,  but  it's  tough." 

It  was  hard,  but  it  would  have  been 
harder  had  not  the  rush  and  push  of  the 
harvest  come  upon  them  just  as  it  did. 
They  never  spoke  of  the  matter  again, 
except  as  a  matter  settled,  till  they  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  the  young  people 
asking  their  consent  to  an  early  marriage. 

They  both  read  the  letter,  and  then  An 
son  said,  without  raising  his  eyes : 

"Well,  what  d'  you  think  of  it?" 

"  Oh,  we  might  as  well  say  yes,"  re 
plied  Bert  irritably. 

"  But  she's  so  young." 

"  She  seems  so  to  us,  but  my  mother 
was  married  at  fifteen.  If  she's  going  to 
leave  us,  why,  the  sooner  she  has  a  home 
the  better,  I  s'pose. " 

"  I  s'pose  you're  right.  But  I'd  rather 
have  'em  put  it  off  a  year." 

"  Oh,  a  year  wouldn't  make  any  differ 
ence,  and  besides,  you  can't  stop  the  thing 
now.  She's  out  of  our  hands." 

They  wrote  giving  their  consent,  and 
the  wedding  was  fixed  for  late  September 


fflajen  Sa^s  <3oo^bge.          127 

to  enable  the  fall's  work  to  be  put  out  of 
the  way.  For  Elga's  sake  they  bought  new 
suits  and  hats  before  starting  on  their  trip, 
though  the  harvest  hardly  justified  any 
extravagance. 

Under  other  circumstances  they  would 
have  rejoiced  over  the  trip,  for  it  was 
carrying  them  back  to  the  gleam  of  leaf- 
dappled  streams  and  waving  trees  and 
deep,  cool  forests.  It  made  their  nostrils 
dilate  with  pleasure  as  they  whirled  past 
fern-filled  ravines,  out  of  which  the  rivu 
lets  stole  with  stealthy  circuits  under 
mossy  rocks.  They  were  both  forest-born, 
and  it  was  like  getting  back  home  out 
of  a  strange  desert  country  to  come  back 
into  "the  States." 

St.  Peter  was  a  small  town,  situated  on 
the  steep  bank  of  a  broad  river — that  is 
to  say,  the  business  street  was  there,  but 
the  seminary  and  the  residence  part  of 
the  town  was  on  a  high  and  beautiful 
plateau.  The  country  was  well  diversified 
with  wood  and  prairie. 

Kendall  and  Elga  met  them  at  the  sta 
tion.  Elga  with  flushed  face  was  search- 


128  B  Xlttle 


ing  the  car-windows  with  eager  glance, 
when  Anson  appeared  on  the  platform. 
The  quick  rush  she  made  for  him  drove 
out  all  his  bitterness.  It  made  him  un 
derstand  that  she  loved  him  as  if  he  were 
her  father. 

She  greeted  Bert  with  a  little  less 
warmth,  and  chattering  with  joy  she  led 
the  way  up  the  street  with  Anson.  She 
had  a  hundred  things  to  tell  him,  and 
he  listened  in  a  daze.  She  seemed  so 
different  from  his  Flaxen.  Bert  walked 
behind  with  Kendall,  who  did  not  impress 
him  favourably. 

He  was  a  harmless  little  creature 
enough  —  small,  a  little  inclined  to  bow- 
legs,  and  dudish  in  manner  and  dress. 
His  hair  was  smoothed  till  it  shone  like 
ebony,  and  he  wore  the  latest  designs  in 
standing  collars,  high  on  his  slim  neck. 
His  hands  were  beautifully  small  and 
white  and  held  several  rings.  He  had 
the  manners  of  a  dry-goods  clerk. 

"He  can't  abuse  her,  that's  one  good 
thing  about  the  whelp,"  thought  Bert  as 
he  crushed  the  young  bridegroom's  hand 


Sa^s  <3oo&*bBC,          129 


in  his  brown  palm,  just  to  see  him 
cringe. 

As  for  Kendall,  he  was  a  little  afraid 
of  these  big  fellows,  so  sullen  and  strong  ; 
and  he  tried  his  best  to  please  them, 
chirping  away  brightly  upon  all  kinds  of 
things,  ending  up  by  telling  them  his 
business  plans. 

"We're  one  o'  the  best  cities  on  the 
river.  Couldn't  be  a  better  place  fer  a 
business  stand,  don't  you  see?  And  we're 
getting  to  the  front  with  our  wholesale 
department  (of  course  —  ha!  ha!  my  wife's 
father  ought  to  know  how  I'm  getting  on), 
so  you're  welcome  to  look  over  my  books. 
Our  trade  is  a  cash  trade  so  far  as  our  re 
tail  trade  goes,  and  we're  mighty  careful 
who  gets  tick  from  us  on  the  wholesale 
trade.  We're  developing  a  great  business.  " 

Bert  and  Anson  made  no  replies  to  his 
chatter,  and  he  pattered  along  by  An 
son  's  side  like  a  small  boy,  showing  them 
the  town  and  its  beauties.  Anson  in 
wardly  despised  the  little  man,  but  held 
it  a  sort  of  treason  to  think  so,  and  tried 
to  look  upon  him  kindly. 


130  B  Xittle  IKorsfe. 

The  wedding  took  place  in  the  house 
of  the  Holt  family,  and  was  in  charge 
of  Miss  Holt,  Elga's  teacher.  Kendall's 
parents  could  not  be  present,  which  was  a 
great  disappointment  to  Elga,  but  Will 
was  secretly  glad  of  it.  His  father  was  a 
very  crusty  and  brutal  old  fellow,  and  he 
would  not  have  fitted  in  smoothly  beside 
Bert  and  Anson,  who  were  as  uncomfort 
able  as  men  could  well  be.  Both  wished 
to  avoid  it,  but  dared  not  object. 

Anson  stood  bravely  through  the  cere 
mony  as  the  father  of  the  bride,  and  bore 
himself  with  his  usual  massive,  rude  dig 
nity.  But  he  inwardly  winced  as  he  saw 
Elga,  looking  very  stately  and  beautiful 
in  her  bride's  veil,  towering  half  a  head 
above  the  sleek-haired  little  clerk.  Not 
a  few  of  the  company  smiled  at  the  con 
trast,  but  she  had  no  other  feeling  than 
perfect  love  and  happiness. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over  and  An 
son  looked  around  for  Bert,  he  was  gone. 
He  couldn't  stand  the  pressure  of  the 
crowd  and  the  whispered  comments,  and 
had  slipped  away  early  in  the  evening. 


3flajen  Sags  <Soo&*bge,          131 

Among  the  presents  which  were  laid  on 
the  table  in  the  dining-room  was  a  long 
envelope  addressed  to  Mrs.  Will  Kendall. 
It  contained  a  deed  for  a  house  and  lot  in 
one  of  the  most  desirable  parts  of  the 
suburbs.  It  was  from  Gearheart,  but 
there  was  no  other  written  word.  This 
gift  meant  the  sale  of  his  claim  in  Dakota. 

When  Anson  got  back  to  the  hotel  that 
night,  wondering  and  alarmed  at  his  part 
ner's  absence,  he  found  a  letter  from  him. 
It  was  savage  and  hopeless. 

This  climate  is  getting  too  frigid  for  my 
lungs.  I'm  going  to  emigrate  to  California. 
I  made  a  mistake :  I  ought  to  have  gone  in 
for  stand -up  collars,  shiny  hair,  and  bow-legs. 
You'd  better  skip  back  to  Dakota  and  sell 
your  claim.  Keep  my  share  of  the  stock  and 
tools  ;  it  ain't  worth  bothering  about.  Don't 
try  to  live  there  alone,  old  man.  If  you  can't 
sell,  marry.  Don't  let  that  girl  break  you  all 
up  too.  We  are  all  fools,  but  some  can  get 
over  it  quicker  than  others. 

If  that  little  bow-legged  thing  gets  under 
your  feet  or  abuses  her,  jest  get  your  toe  un 
der  him  and  hoist  him  over  into  the  alley. 

Good-bye  and  good  luck,  old  man. 

BERT. 


132  a  Ufttle 


And  tho  next  day  tlio  doubly  bereaved 
man  started  on  his  lonely  journey  back 
to  the  Dakota  claim,  back  to  an  empty 
house,  with  a  gnawing  pain  in  his  heart 
and  a  constriction  like  an  iron  band  about 
his  throat;  back  to  his  broad  fields  to  plod 
to  and  fro  alone. 

As  he  began  to  realize  it  all  and  to 
think  how  terrible  was  this  loss,  he  laid 
his  head  down  on  the  car-seat  before  him 
and  cried.  His  first  great  trial  had  come 
to  him,  and  meeting  it  like  a  man,  he 
must  now  weep  like  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
FLAXEN'S  GREAT  NEED. 


LAXEN  wrote  occasionally,  dur 
ing  the  next  year,  letters  all 
too  short  and  too  far  between 
for  the  lonely  man  toiling 
away  on  his  brown  farm.  These  letters 
were  very  much  alike,  telling  mainly  of 
how  happy  she  was,  and  of  what  she  was 
going  to  do  by  and  by,  on  Christmas  or 
Thanksgiving.  Once  she  sent  a  photo 
graph  of  herself  and  husband,  and  Anson, 
after  studying  it  for  a  long  time,  took  a 
pair  of  shears  and  cut  the  husband  off, 
and  threw  him  into  the  fire. 

"That  fellow  gives  me  the  ague,"  he 
muttered. 

Bert  did  not  write,  arid  there  was  hardly 
a  night  that  Ans  lay  down  on  his  bed  that 
he  did  not  wonder  where  his  chum  was, 

133 


134  B  Xftttc  IRorsfe. 

especially  as  the  winter  came  on  unusually 
severe,  reminding  him  of  that  first  winter 
in  the  Territory.  Day  after  day  he  spent 
.  alone  in  his  house,  going  out  only  to  feed 
the  cattle  or  to  get  the  mail.  The  sad 
wind  was  always  in  his  ears.  But  with 
the  passage  of  time  the  pain  in  his  heart 
lost  its  intensity. 

One  day  he  got  a  letter  from  Flaxen 
that  startled  and  puzzled  him.  It  was 
like  a  cry  for  help,  somehow. 

"  Dear  old  pap,  I  wish  you  was  here," 
and  then  in  another  place  came  the  pit 
eous  cry,  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  some  folks!" 

All  night  long  that  cry  rang  in  the 
man's  head  with  a  wailing,  falling  ca 
dence  like  the  note  of  a  lost  little  prairie- 
chicken. 

"  I  wonder  what  that  whelp  has  been 
doin'  now.  If  he's  begun  to  abuse  her 
I'll  wring  his  neck.  She  wants  me  an' 
da'sn't  ask  me  to  come.  Poor  chick,  I'll 
be  pap  an'  mam  to  ye,  both,"  he  said  at 
last,  with  sudden  resolution. 

The  day  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter 
a  telegram  was  handed  to  him  at  the  post- 


's  Great  IReeD,  135 


office,  which  he   opened   with   trembling 
hands: 

ANSON  WOOD  :  Your  daughter  is  ill.  Wants 
you.  Come  at  once. 

DR.  DIETRICH. 

He  got  into  his  wagon  mechanically  and 
lashed  his  horses  into  a  run.  He  must 
get  home  and  arrange  about  his  stock  and 
catch  the  seven  o'clock  train.  His  mind 
ran  the  round  of  the  possibilities  in  the 
case  until  it  ached  with  the  hopeless 
fatigue  of  it.  When  he  got  upon  the 
train  for  an  all-night  ride,  he  looked  like 
a  man  suffering  some  great  physical  pain. 

He  sat  there  all  night  in  a  common 
seat  —  he  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  a 
sleeper;  sat  and  suffered  the  honest  tor 
ture  that  can  come  to  a  man  —  to  sit  and 
think  the  same  dread,  apprehensive  won 
dering  thoughts;  to  strain  at  the  seat  as 
if  to  push  the  train  faster,  and  to  ache 
with  the  desire  to  fly  like  the  eagle.  He 
tried  to  be  patient,  but  he  could  only  grow 
numb  with  the  effort. 

A  glorious  winter  sun  was  beginning  to 


136  a  xtttle  morsfc. 

light  up  the  frost  foliage  of  the  maples 
lining  St.  Peter's  streets  when  Anson, 
stiff  with  cold  and  haggard  with  a  night 
of  sleepless  riding,  sprang  off  the  train 
and  looked  about  him.  The  beauty  of 
the  morning  made  itself  felt  even  through 
his  care.  These  rows  of  resplendent  ma 
ples,  heavy  with  iridescent  frost,  were 
like  fairy-land  to  him,  fresh  from  the 
treeless  prairie.  As  he  walked  on  under 
them,  showers  of  powdered  rubies  and 
diamonds  fell  down  upon  him ;  the  colon 
nades  seemed  like  those  leading  to  some 
enchanted  palace,  such  as  he  had  read  of 
in  boyhood.  Every  shrub  in  the  yards 
was  similarly  decked,  and  the  snug  cot 
tages  were  like  the  little  house  which  he 
had  once  seen  at  the  foot  of  the  Christ 
mas-tree  in  a  German  church  years  before. 

Feet  crunched  along  cheerily  on  the 
sidewalks,  bells  of  dray-teams  were  begin 
ning  to  sound,  and  workmen  to  whistle. 

Anson  was  met  at  the  door  by  a  hard- 
faced,  middle-aged  woman. 

"How's  my  girl?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  nicely.     Walk  in." 


Great  IFleeO.  137 


"  Can  I  see  her  now?" 

"  She's  sleepin'  ;  I  guess  you  better 
wait  a  little  while  till  after  breakfast." 

"Where's  Kendall?"  was  his  next  ques 
tion. 

"  I  d'n'  know.  Hain't  seen  'im  sence 
yesterday.  He  don't  amount  to  much, 
anyway,  and  in  these  cases  there  ain't  no 
dependin'  on  a  boy  like  that.  It's  nachel 
fer  girls  to  call  on  their  mothers  an'  fa 
thers  in  such  cases." 

Anson  was  about  to  ask  her  what  the 
trouble  was  with  his  girl,  when  she 
turned  away.  She  could  not  be  danger 
ously  ill;  anyway,  there  was  comfort  in 
that. 

After  he  had  eaten  a  slight  breakfast  of 
bad  coffee  and  yellow  biscuits,  Mrs.  Stick- 
ney  came  back. 

"  She's  awake  an'  wants  to  see  yeh.  Now 
don't  get  excited.  She  ain't  dangerous." 

Anson  was  alarmed  and  puzzled  at  her 
manner.  Her  smile  mystified  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded. 

Her  reply  was  common  enough,  but  it 
stopped  him  with  his  foot  on  the  thresh- 
10 


138  a  Xfttle 


old.  He  understood  at  last.  The  maj 
esty  and  mystery  of  birth  was  like  a  light 
in  his  face,  and  dazzled  him.  He  was 
awed  and  exalted  at  the  same  time. 

"Open  the  door;  I  want  to  see  her," 
he  said  in  a  new  tone. 

As  they  entered  the  darkened  chamber 
he  heard  his  girl's  eager  cry. 

"Is  that  you,  pap?"  wailed  her  faint, 
sweet  voice. 

"Yes:  it's  me,  Flaxie."  He  crossed 
the  room  and  knelt  by  the  bed.  She 
flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  0  pappy  !  pappy  !  I  wanted  you.  Oh, 
my  poor  mamma!  0  pap,  I  don't  like 
her,"  she  whispered,  indicating  the  nurse 
with  her  eyes.  "  0  pap,  I  hate  to  think 
of  mother  lying  there  in  the  snow  —  an' 
Bert  —  where  is  Bert,  pap?  Perhaps  he's 
in  the  blizzard  too  -  " 

"She's  a  little  flighty,"  said  the  nurse 
in  her  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Anson  groaned  as  he  patted  the  pale 
cheek  of  the  sufferer. 

"  Don't  worry,  Flaxie;  Bert's  all  right. 
He'll  come  home  soon.  Why  don't  you 


fflar.en'8  Great  meefc.  139 

send  for  the  doctor?"  he  said  to  the 
nurse. 

"  He'll  be  here  soon.  Don't  worry  over 
that,"  indicating  Flaxen,  who  was  whis 
pering  to  herself.  "  They  of'n  do  that." 

"  Do  you  s'pose  I  can  find  my  folks  if  I 
go  back  to  Norway?"  she  said  to  Anson  a, 
little  after. 

"Yes:  I  guess  so,  little  one.  When 
you  get  well,  we'll  try  an'  see." 

"Perhaps  if  I  found  my  aunt  she'd 
look  like  mamma,  an'  I'd  know  then  how 
mamma  looked,  wouldn't  I?  Perhaps  if 
the  wheat  is  good  this  year  we  can  go  back 
an'  find  her,  can't  we?"  Then  her  words 
melted  into  a  moan  of  physical  pain,  and 
the  nurse  said : 

"  Now  I  guess  you'd  better  go  an'  see  if 
you  can't  hurry  the  doctor  up.  Yes :  now 
he's  got  to  go,"  she  went  on  to  Flaxen, 
drowning  out  her  voice  and  putting  her 
imploring  hands  back  upon  the  bed. 

Anson  saw  it  all  now.  In  her  fear  and 
pain  she  had  turned  to  him — poor,  mother 
less  little  bird — forgetting  her  boy-hus 
band  or  feeling  the  need  of  a  broader 


140  a 


breast  and  stronger  hand.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  trust,  and  as  the  great,  shaggy  man 
went  out  into  the  morning  he  was  exalted 
by  the  thought.  "My  little  babe  —  my 
Flaxen!"  he  said  with  unutterable  love 
and  pity. 

Again  his  mind  ran  over  the  line  of  his 
life  —  the  cabin,  the  dead  woman,  the  baby 
face  nestling  at  his  throat,  the  girl  com 
ing  to  him  with  her  trials  and  triumphs. 
His  heart  swelled  so  that  he  could  not 
have  spoken,  but  deep  in  his  throat  he 
muttered  a  dumb  prayer.  And  how  he 
suffered  that  day,  hearing  her  babble 
mixed  with  meanings  every  time  the  door 
opened.  Once  the  doctor  said  : 

"  It's  no  use  for  you  to  stand  here, 
Wood.  It  only  makes  you  suffer  and 
don't  help  her  a  particle." 

"  It  seems  's  if  it  helped  her,  an'  so  —  I 
guess  I'll  stay.  She  may  call  for  me,  an' 
if  she  does,"  he  said  resolutely,  "  I'm  goin' 
in,  doctor.  How  is  she  now?" 

"  She's  slightly  delirious  now,  but  still 
she  knows  you're  here.  She  now  and  then 
speaks  of  you,  but  doesn't  call  for  you." 


Great  1Ree&.  141 


But  she  did  call  for  him,  and  he  went 
in,  and  kneeling  by  her  side  he  talked 
to  her  and  held  her  hands,  stroked  her 
hair  and  soothed  her  as  he  used  to  when 
a  little  child  unable  to  speak  save  in  her 
pretty  Norseland  tongue,  and  at  last  when 
opiates  were  given,  and  he  rose  and  stag 
gered  from  the  room,  it  seemed  as  though 
he  had  lived  years. 

So  weary  was  he  that,  when  the  doctor 
came  out  and  said,  "  You  may  go  to  sleep 
now,"  he  dropped  heavily  on  a  lounge 
and  fell  asleep  almost  with  the  motion. 
Even  the  preparations  for  breakfast  made 
by  the  hoarse-voiced  servant-girl  did  not 
wake  him,  but  the  drawling,  nasal  tone  of 
Kendall  did.  He  sat  up  and  looked  at 
the  oily  little  clerk.  It  was  after  seven 
o'clock. 

"Hello!"  said  Kendall,  "when  d'  you 
get  in?" 

"  Shortly  after  you  went  out,"  said  An- 
son  in  reply. 

Kendall  felt  the  rebuke,  and  as  he 
twisted  his  cuffs  into  place  said,  "  Well, 
y'  see  I  couldn't  do  no  good  —  a  man  ain't 


142  a  Xittle  morsfc. 

any  good  in  such  cases,  anyway — so  I  just 
thought  I'd  run  down  to  St.  Paul  an'  do 
a  little  buying." 

Anson  turned  away  and  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  wash  his  face  and  to  comb  his 
hair,  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  sight  of  Ken 
dall  for  a  moment.  Mrs.  Stickney  was 
toasting  some  bread. 

"  She's  awake  an'  wants  to  see  you  when 
you  woke  up.  It's  a  girl — thought  I'd 
tell  ye  —  yes:  she's  comfortable.  Say, 
'tween  you  an'  me,  a  man  'at  'u'd  run 

off — waal "  she  ended,  expressively 

glancing  at  Kendall. 

Once  more  Anson  caught  his  breath  as 
he  entered  the  darkened  chamber.  He 
was  a  rough,  untaught  man,  but  there 
was  something  in  him  that  made  that 
room  holy  and  mysterious.  But  the  fig 
ure  on  the  bed  was  tranquil  now,  and  the 
voice,  though  weak  and  low,  was  Flaxen 's 
own. 

He  stopped  as  his  eyes  fell  on  her.  She 
was  no  longer  a  girl.  The  majesty  of 
maternity  was  on  her  pale  face  and  in 
her  great  eyes.  A  faint,  expectant  smile 


fflajen's  Great  IReefc.  143 

was  on  her  lips;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
his  face  as  she  drew  the  cover  from  the 
little  red,  weirdly-wrinkled  face  at  her 
throat. 

Before  he  could  speak,  and  while  he 
was  looking  down  at  the  mite  of  humanity, 
Kendall  stepped  into  the  room. 

"  Hello,  Ellie !     How  are " 

A  singular  revulsion  came  out  on  her 
face.  She  turned  to  Anson.  "  Make  him 
go  'way;  I  don't  want  him." 

"All  right,"  said  Kendall  cheerfully, 
glad  to  escape. 

"Isn't  she  beautiful?"  the  mother 
whispered.  "Does  she  look  like  me?" 
she  asked  artlessly. 

"  She's  beautiful  to  me  because  she's 
yours,  Flaxie,"  replied  Anson,  with  a  deli 
cacy  all  the  more  striking  because  of  the 
contrast  with  his  great  frame  and  hard, 
rough  hands.  "  But  there,  my  girl,  go 
to  sleep  like  baby,  an'  don't  worry  any 
more." 

"You ain't goin'  away  while  I'm  sick?" 
she  asked,  following  him  with  her  eyes, 
unnaturally  large. 


144  B  Xittlc  IRorsfc. 

"  I  won't  never  go  'way  again  if  you 
don't  want  me  to,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  sighed  rest- 
fully. 

He  was  turning  to  go  when  she  wailed 
reproachfully,  "  Pap,  you  didn't  kiss 
baby!" 

Anson  turned  and  came  back.  "  She's 
sleepin',  an'  I  thought  it  wasn't  right  to 
kiss  a  girl  without  she  said  so." 

This  made  Flaxen  smile,  and  Anson 
went  out  with  a  lighter  heart  than  he  had 
had  for  two  years.  Kendall  met  him  out 
side  and  said  confidentially : 

"  I  don't  s'pose  it  was  just  the  thing  for 
me  to  do;  but — confound  it!  I  never 
could  stand  a  sick-room,  anyway.  I 
couldn't  do  any  good,  anyway — just  been 
in  the  way.  She'll  get  over  her  mad  in  a 
few  days.  Think  so?" 

But  she  did  not.  Her  singular  and 
sudden  dislike  of  him  continued,  and 
though  she  passively  submitted  to  his  be 
ing  in  the  room,  she  would  not  speak  a 
word  to  him  nor  look  at  him  as  long  as 
she  could  avoid  it;  and  when  he  ap- 


fflajen's  (Breat  IKlceO,  145 

preached  the  baby  or  took  it  in  his  arms 
a  jealous  frown  came  on  her  face. 

As  for  Anson,  he  grew  to  hate  the 
sound  of  that  little  chuckle  of  Kendall's; 
the  part  in  the  man's  hair  and  the  hang 
of  his  cut-away  coat  made  him  angry. 
The  trim  legs,  a  little  bowed,  the  big 
cuffs  hiding  the  small,  cold  hands,  and 
the  peculiar  set  of  his  faultless  collar, 
grew  daily  more  insupportable. 

"Say,  looky  here,  Kendall,"  said  he  in 
desperation  one  day,  "  I  wish  you  didn't 
like  me  quite  so  well.  We  don't  hitch 
first  rate — at  least,  I  don't.  Seems  to  me 
you're  neglectin'  your  business  too  much." 

He  was  going  to  tell  him  to  keep  away, 
but  he  relented  as  he  looked  down  at  the 
harmless  little  man,  with  his  thin,  boyish 
face. 

"  Oh,  my  business  is  all  right.  Gregory 
looks  after  it  mostly,  anyhow.  But,  I  say, 
if  you  wanted  to  go  into  the  dray  busi 
ness,  there's  a  first-class  opening  now. 
Clark  wants  to  sell." 

It  ended  in  Anson  seeing  Clark  and 
buying  out  his  line  of  drays,  turning  in 


146  21  Xittle  IRorsfc. 

his  claim  toward  the  payment — a  trans 
action  which  made  Flaxen  laugh  for  joy, 
for  she  had  not  felt  certain  before  that  he 
would  remain  in  St.  Peter.  She  was  get 
ting  about  the  house  now,  looking  very 
wifely  in  her  long,  warm  wraps,  her  slow 
motions  contrasting  strongly  with  the  old 
restless,  springing  steps  Anson  remem 
bered  so  well. 

Night  after  night,  as  he  sat  beside  the 
fire  and  held  baby,  listening  to  the 
changed  voice  of  his  girl  and  watching 
the  grave,  new  expressions  of  her  face,  the 
tooth  of  time  took  hold  upon  him  power 
fully,  and  he  would  feel  his  shaggy  head 
and  think,  "  I'll  soon  be  gray,  soon  be 
gray!"  while  the  little  one  cooed,  and 
sprang,  and  pulled  at  his  beard,  which 
had  grown  long  again  and  had  white 
hairs  in  it. 

Kendall  spent  most  of  his  time  at  the 
store,  or  downtown  somewhere,  and  so 
all  of  those  long,  delicious  winter  even 
ings  were  Flaxen's  and  Anson's.  And 
his  enjoyment  of  them  was  pathetic.  The 
cheerful  little  sitting-room,  the  open 


jflajen's  Great  meefc.  147 

grate,  the  gracious,  ever-growing  woman 
liness  of  Elga,  the  pressure  of  soft  little 
limbs,  and  the  babble  of  a  liquid  baby 
language,  were  like  the  charm  of  an  un 
expected  Indian-summer  day  between  two 
gray  November  storms. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

KENDALL   STEPS   OUT. 

NE  night  Kendall  did  not  come 
home,  but  as  he  had  been 
talking  of  going  to  St.  Paul 
they  were  not  disturbed  about 
it — in  fact,  they  both  took  but  very  mild 
interest  in  his  coming  or  going.  In  the 
morning,  while  they  were  at  breakfast, 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  shouted  Anson  in  the  West 
ern  way,  not  rising. 

McDaniel,  the  county  sheriff,  entered. 
"  Where's  Kendall?"  he  asked  without 
ceremony. 

"I    don't    know;    went    away    yester 
day." 

The  sheriff  looked  at  his  companion. 
''Skipped  between  two  days." 

"  What's  up?"  asked  Anson,  while  Elga 

148 


Steps  ©ut.  149 


stared  and  baby  reached  slyly  for  the 
sugar-bowl. 

"Nothing,"  the  sheriff  said  in  a  tone 
which  meant  everything.  "  Come  out 
here,"  he  said  to  Anson.  Anson  went  out 
with  him,  and  he  told  him  that  Kendall 
had  purchased  goods  on  credit  and  gam 
bled  the  money  away,  and  was  ruined. 

His  stock  of  goods  was  seized,  and  the 
house  was  saved  only  through  the  firmness 
of  Anson. 

Flaxen  shut  her  lips  and  said  nothing, 
and  he  could  not  read  her  silence.  One 
day  she  came  to  him  with  a  letter. 

"  Read  that!"  she  exclaimed  scornfully. 
He  saw  that  it  was  dated  from  Eau  Claire, 
Wisconsin  : 


DEAR  DARLING  WIFE  :  I'm  all  right  here 
with  father.  It  was  all  Gregory's  fault — he 
was  always  betting  on  something.  I'm  com 
ing  back  as  soon  as  the  old  man  can  raise  the 
money  to  pay  Fitch.  Don't  worry  about  me. 
They  can't  take  the  house,  anyway.  You 
might  rent  the  house,  sell  the  furniture  on  the 
sly,  and  come  back  here.  The  old  man  will 
give  me  another  show.  I  don't  owe  more 


150  a  xfttle 


than    a    thousand    dollars,    anyway.      Write 
soon.     Your  loving 

WILL. 

She  did  not  need  to  say  what  she 
thought  of  the  advice  the  little  villain 
gave. 

Anson  went  quietly  on  with  his  work, 
making  a  living  for  himself  and  Flaxen 
and  baby.  It  never  occurred  to  either  of 
them  that  any  other  arrangement  was  nec 
essary.  Kendall  wrote  once  or  twice  a 
month  for  awhile,  saying  each  time,  "  I'll 
come  back  and  settle  up,"  and  asking  her 
to  come  to  him;  but  she  did  not  reply, 
and  never  referred  to  him  outside  her 
home,  and  when  others  inquired  after 
him  she  replied  evasively  : 

"  He's  in  Wisconsin  somewhere  ;  I  don't 
know  where." 

"  Is  he  coming  back?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  often  spoke  of  Bert,  and  complained 
of  his  silence.  Once  she  said  : 

"  I  guess  he's  forgot  us,  pap." 

"  I  guess  not.  More  likely  he's  thinkin' 
we've  f  ergot  him.  He'll  turn  up  some 


Steps  <Smt 


bright  mornin'  with  a  pocketful  o'  rocks. 
He  ain't  no  spring  chicken,  Bert  ain't." 
("All  the  same,  I  wish't  he'd  write," 
Anson  said  to  himself.) 

The  sad  death  of  Kendall  came  to  them 
without  much  disturbing  force.  He  had 
been  out  of  their  lives  so  long  that  when 
Anson  came  in  with  the  paper  and  letter 
telling  of  the  accident,  and  with  his  in 
stinctive  delicacy  left  her  alone  to  read 
the  news,  Flaxen  was  awed  and  saddened, 
but  had  little  sense  of  personal  pain  and 


"Young  Kendall,"  the  newspaper  went 
on  under  its  scare-heads,  "  was  on  a  visit 
to  La  Crosse,  and  while  skating  with  a 
party  on  the  bayou,  where  the  La  Crosse 
River  empties  into  the  Father  of  Waters, 
skated  into  an  air-hole.  The  two  young 
ladies  with  him  were  rescued,  but  the 
fated  man  was  swept  under  the  ice.  He 
was  the  son,"  etc. 

When  Anson  came  back  Flaxen  sat  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand  and  the  paper  on 
her  lap.  She  was  meditating  deeply,  but 


152  B  Xittle  IRorsft. 

what  was  in  her  mind  Anson  never  knew. 
She  had  grown  more  and  more  reticent  of 
late.  She  sighed,  rose,  and  resumed  her 
evening  tasks. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BERT  COMES   BACK. 


NE  raw  March   evening,  when 
the  wind  was  roaring  among 
the  gray  branches  of  the  ma 
ples  like  a  lion  in  wrath,  some 
one  knocked  on  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  shouted  Anson,  who  was 
giving  baby  her  regular  ride  on  his  boots. 
"  Come  in!"  added  Flaxen. 
Gearheart  walked  in  slowly,  closed  the 
door  behind  his  back,  and  stood  devour 
ing  the  cheerful    scene.     He  was  poorly 
dressed  and  wore  a  wide,  limp  hat;  they 
did  not  know  him  till  he  bared  his  head. 
"Bert!"  yelled  Anson,  tossing  the  baby 
to  his  shoulder   and  leaping  toward  his 
chum,  tramping   and   shaking   and  clap 
ping  like  a  madman,  scaring  the  child. 
"My  gosh-all-hemlock !     I'm    glad  to 

11  153 


154  B  Xittle  morsfc. 

see  ye !  Gimme  that  paw  again.  Come 
to  the  fire.  This  is  Flaxie"  (as  though  he 
had  not  had  his  eyes  on  her  face  all  the 
time).  "Be'n  sick?" 

Bert's  hollow  cough  prompted  this 
question. 

"  Yes.  Had  some  kind  of  a  fever  down 
in  Arizony.  Oh,  I'm  all  right  now,"  he 
added  in  reply  to  an  anxious  look  from 
Flaxen. 

"  An'  this  is " 

"Baby — Elsie,"  she  replied,  putting  a 
finishing  touch  to  the  little  one's  dress, 
mother-like. 

"  Where's  he?"  he  asked  a  little  later. 

Anson  replied  with  a  little  gesture, 
which  silenced  Bert  at  the  same  time  that 
it  explained.  And  when  Flaxen  was  busy 
a  few  moments  later,  Anson  said : 

"  Gone  up  the  spout." 

At  the  table  they  grew  quite  gay,  talk 
ing  over  old  times,  and  Bert's  pale  face 
grew  rosier,  catching  a  reflection  of  the 
happy  faces  opposite. 

•'  Say,  Bert,  do  you  remember  the  time 
you  threw  that  pan  o'  biscuits  I  made 


JBert  Comes  JBacft,  155 

out  into  the  grass  an'  killed  every  dog  in 
the  township?"  Then  they  roared. 

"  I  remember  your  flapjacks  that  always 
split  open  in  the  middle,  an'  no  amount 
o'  heat  could  cook  'em  inside,"  Bert  re 
plied. 

Then  they  grew  sober  again  when  Bert 
said  with  a  pensive  cadence:  "Well,  I 
tell  you,  those  were  days  of  hard  work; 
but  many's  the  time  I've  looked  back  at 
'em  these  last  three  years,  wishin'  they'd 
never  ended  an'  that  we'd  never  got  scat 
tered." 

"We  won't  be  again,  will  we,  pap?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  Anson  replied. 

"  But  how  are  you,  Bert?     Rich?" 

Bert  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
laid  a  handful  of  small  coins  on  the 
table. 

"  That's  the  size  o'  my  pile — four  dol 
lars,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly ;  "  the  whole 
o'  my  three  years'  work." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  ol'  man.  I've  got 
a  chance  fer  yeh.  Still  an  ol'  bach?" 

"Still  an  old  bach."  He  looked  at 
Flaxen,  irresistibly  drawn  to  her  face. 


156  B  xittle 


She  dropped  her  eyes;  she  could  not  have 
told  why. 

And  so  "Wood  &  Gearheart"  was  paint 
ed  on  the  sides  of  the  drays,  and  they  all 
continued  to  live  in  the  little  yellow  cot 
tage,  enjoying  life  much  more  than  the 
men,  at  least,  had  ever  dared  to  hope; 
and  little  Elsie  grew  to  be  a  "great  girl," 
and  a  nuisance  with  her  desire  to  :<  yide" 
with  "g'an'pap." 

There  is  no  spot  more  delightful  in 
early  April  than  the  sunny  side  of  the 
barn,  and  Ans  and  Bert  felt  this,  though 
they  did  not  say  it.  The  eaves  were 
dripping,  the  doves  cooing,  the  hens  sing 
ing  their  harsh-throated,  weirdly  suggest 
ive  songs,  and  the  thrilling  warmth  and 
vitality  of  the  sun  and  wind  of  spring 
made  the  great,  rude  fellows  shudder  with 
a  strange  delight.  Anson  held  out  his 
palm  to  catch  the  sunshine  in  it,  took  off 
his  hat  to  feel  the  wind,  and  mused: 

"This  is  a  great  world  —  and  a  great 
day.  I  wish't  it  was  always  spring." 

"  Say,"  began  Bert  abruptly,  "  it  seems 


3Sert  Gomes  Sacfc,  157 

pretty  well  understood  that  you're  her  fa 
ther — but  where  do  I  come  in?" 

"You  ought  to  be  her  husband."  A 
light  leaped  into  the  younger  man's  face. 
"But  go  slow,"  Anson  went  on  gravely. 
"This  package  is  marked 'Glass;  handle 
with  care.'  " 


THE  END. 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

APPLETONS'  SUMMER  SERIES,  1891. 
'TOURMALIN'S  TIME  CHEQUES.     By  F.  ANSTEY, 
•*•         author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "  The  Giant's  Robe,"  etc. 

"  Its  author  has  struck  another  rich  vein  of  whimsicality  and  humor." 
—  San  Francisco  A  rgonaut. 

"  His  special  gift  is  in  making  the  impossible  appear  probable."  —  St. 
Louis  Republic. 

"A  curious  conceit  and  very  entertaining  story."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  Each  cheque  is  good  for  several  laughs."  —  New  York  Herald. 

"Certainly  one  of  the  most  diverting  books  of  the  season."  —  Brooklyn 
Times 

"  Sets  a  handsome  example  for  the  '  Summer  Series/  with  its  neat  and 
portable  style  of  half  cloth  binding  and  good  paper  and  typography."  — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 


SHADO  W   TO   SUNLIGHT.     By  the  MAR- 

QUIS  OF  LORNE. 

"  In  these  days  of  princely  criticism  —  that  is  to  say,  criticism  of  princes 
—  it  is  refreshing  to  meet  a  really  good  bit  of  aristocratic  literary  work,  al 
beit  the  author  is  only  a  prince-in-law.  .  .  .  The  theme  chosen  by  the 
Marquis  makes  his  story  attractive  to  Americans."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  A  charming  book."  —  Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

ADOPTING  AN  ABANDONED  FARM.  By  KATE 
•*-*  SANBORN. 

"It  may  be  mythical,  but  it  reads  like  a  true  narrative  taken  from  a 
strong  memory  that  has  been  re-enforced  by  a  diary  and  corrected  by  the 
parish  register.  It  is  not  only  as  natural  as  life,  but,  as  Josh  Billings  used 
to  say,  'even  more  so.'  "  —  New  York  Journal  oj  Commerce. 

"A  sunny,  pungent,  humorous  sketch.  ...  A  bright,  amusing  book, 
which  is  thoughtful  as  well  as  amusing,  and  may  stimulate,  somewhere, 
thinking  that  shall  bear  fruit  in  some  really  effective  remedial  action."  — 
Chicago  Times 

f\N   THE   LAKE    OF  LUCERNE,   AND    OTHER 
^      STORIES.     By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

"  Six  short  stories  carefully  and  conscientiously  finished,  and  told  with 
the  graceful  ease  of  the  practiced  raconteur."  —  Literary  Digest. 

"The  stories  are  pleasantly  told  in  light  and  delicate  vein,  and  are  sure 
to  be  acceptable  to  the  friends  Miss  Whitby  has  already  made  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic."—  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Very  dainty,  not  only  in  mechanical  workmanship  but  in  matter  and 
manner."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


Each,  i6mo,  half  cloth,  with  specially  designed  cover,  50  cents. 
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STEPHEN  ELLICOTT'S  DAUGHTER.     By  Mrs. 
•^     J.    H.    NEEDELL,   author  of    "The   Story  of  Philip 
Methuen."     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  I  am  desirous  to  bear  my  humble  testimony  to  the  great  ability  and 
high  aim  of  the  work." — Hon.  W.  E.  GLADSTONE. 

"From  first  to  last  an  exceptionally  strong  and  beautiful  story." — 
London  Spectator. 

E  REASON  WHY.  By  BEATRICE  WHITBY,  au- 
thor  of  "  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick,"  "  Part  of 
the  Property,"  etc.  I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  remarkably  well-written  story.  .  .  .  The  author  makes  her  people 
speak  the  language  of  every-day  life,  and  a  vigorous  and  attractive  realism 
pervades  the  book,  which  provides  excellent  entertainment  from  beginning 
to  end." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


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'HE  TRAGEDY  OF  IDA  NOBLE.  By  W.  CLARK 
RUSSELL,  author  of  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor," 
etc.  I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"The  best  sea-story  since  '  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor.'  It  shows  a 
determination  to  abandon  the  well-worn  tracks  of  fiction  and  to  evolve  a 
new  and  striking  plot.  .  .  .  There  is  no  sign  of  exhausted  imagination  in 
this  strong  tale." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

*J^HE     JOHNSTOWN     STAGE     AND     OTHER 

•*•       STORIES.     By  ROBERT  H.  FLETCHER,  author  of  "  A 

Blind  Bargain,"  etc.    I2mo.    Paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  collection  of  as  charming  short  stories  as  one  could  wish  to  find, 
most  of  them  Western  in  scene." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"  Nine  real  stories,  not  studies  of  character,  but  narratives  of  interest. 
.  .  vivaciously  and  pleasantly  told." — Boston  Pilot. 

A   WIDOWER  INDEED.      By  RHODA  BROUGHTON 
•*•*     and  ELIZABETH    BISLAND.     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents ; 
cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Done  with  masterly  skill.  The  whole  work  is  strong  and  well  worth 
reading." — New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

"  The  story  is  written  with  great  strength,  and  possesses  a  powerful  in 
terest  that  never  flags." — Boston  Home  Journal. 


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RECENT  ISSUES  IN  APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 

'HE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  SHADOW.  By  GEORGE 
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Quiet  Neighborhood,"  etc.  I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ; 
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Pioneer-Press. 

T  0  VE  OR  MONE  Y.     By  KATHARINE  LEE,  author  of 
"       "A  Western  Wildflower,"  "  In  London  Town,"  etc. 
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acters  are  well  drawn,  and  there  are  some  singularly  strong  scenes  in  the 
book." — Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

AJOT  ALL  IN  VAIN.  By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE,  author 
of  "  The  Three  Miss  Kings,"  "  My  Guardian,"  etc. 
I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  worthy  companion  to  the  best  of  the  author's  former  efforts,  and  in 
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"A  better  story  has  not  been  published  in  many  moons."— Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

TT  HAPPENED  YESTERDA  Y.  By  FREDERICK 
MARSHALL,  author  of  "Claire  Brandon."  i2mo. 
Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"An  odd,  fantastic  tale,  whose  controlling  agency  is  an  occult  power 
which  the  world  thui  far  has  doubted  and  wondered  at  alternately  rather 
than  studied." — Chicago  Times. 

'^A   Psychol°gical   story  of  very  powerful   interest."— Boston  Home 

J\/TY  GUARDIAN.  By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE,  author  of 
"The  Three  Miss  Kings,"  "Not  All  in  Vain,"  etc. 
I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $T.OO. 

"A  story  which  will,  from  first  to  last,  enlist  the  sympathies  of  the 
reader  by  its  simplicity  of  style  and  fresh,  genuine  feeling.  .  .  .  The  author 
is  an  fait  at  the  delineation  of  character." — Boston  Transcript. 

"The  c/e'noument  is  all  that  the  most  ardent  romance-reader  could 
desire.  — Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

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T^LINE    VERE.      By  Louis  COUPERUS.      Translated 
•*-*      from  the  Dutch  by  J.  T.  GREIN.      With  an  Introduc 
tion  by  EDMUND  GOSSE.       Holland   Fiction   Series. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  established  authorities  in  art  and  literature  retain  their  exclusive 
place  in  dictionaries  and  hand-books  long  after  the  claim  of  their  juniors  to 
be  observed  with  attention  has  been  practically  conceded  at  home.  For  this 
reason,  partly,  and  partly  also  because  the  mental  life  of  Holland  receives 
little  attention  in  this  country,  no  account  has  yet  been  taken  of  the  revolu 
tion  in  Dutch  taste  which  has  occupied  the  last  six  or  seven  years.  I  believe 
that  the  present  occasion  is  the  first  on  which  it  has  been  brought  to  the 
notice  of  any  English-speaking  public.  .  .  .  '  Eline  Vere '  is  an  admirable 
performance." — EDMUND  GOSSE,  in  Introduction. 

"  Most  careful  in  its  details  of  description,  most  picturesque  in  its  color 
ing." — Boston  Post. 

"A  vivacious  and  skillful  performance,  giving  an  evidently  faithfu^ 
picture  of  society,  and  evincing  the  art  of  a  true  story-teller." — Philadelphia 
Telegraph. 

"Those  who  associate  Dutch  characters  and  Dutch  thought  with  ideas 
of  the  purely  phlegmatic,  will  read  with  astonishment  and  pleasure  the  oft- 
times  stirring  and  passionate  sentences  of  this  novel." — Public  Opinion. 

"The  dtno&ment  is  tragical,  thrilling,  and  picturesque."— New  York 
World. 

"If  modern  Dutch  literature  has  other  books  as  good  as  this  to  offer,  we 
hope  that  they  will  soon  find  a  translator. "—Chicago  Evening  Journal. 


A  PURITAN  PAGAN.  By  JULIEN  GORDON,  author 
"  of  "A  Diplomat's  Diary,"  etc.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $I.OO. 

"  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  Cruger  grows  stronger  as  she  writes.  .  .  .  The 
lines  in  her  story  are  boldly  and  vigorously  etched."— New  York  Times. 

"The  author's  recent  books  have  made  for  her  a  secure  place  in  current 
literature,  where  she  can  stand  fast.  .  .  .  Her  latest  production,  '  A  Puritan 
Pagan,'  is  an  eminently  clever  story,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  clever." 
—Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

"  Has  already  made  its  mark  as  a  popular  story,  and  will  have  an  abun 
dance  of  readers.  ...  It  contains  some  useful  lessons  that  will  repay  the 
thoughtful  study  of  persons  of  both  sexes."— New  York  Journal  of  Com 
merce. 

"This  brilliant  novel  will  without  doubt  add  to  the  repute  of  the  writer 
who  chooses  to  be  known  as  Julien  Gordon.  .  ._  .  The  ethical  purpose  of 
the  author  is  kept  fully  in  evidence  through  a  series  of  intensely  interesting 
situations." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  It  is  obvious  that  the  author  is  thoroughly  at  home  in  illustrating  the 
manner  and  the  sentiment  of  the  best  society  of  both  America  and  Europe." 
— Chicago  Times. 

New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


*T 
•*• 


D.  APPLETON   &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


E  FAITH  DOCTOR.  By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON, 
author  of  "  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "  The  Circuit 
Rider,"  etc.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"An  excellent  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  With  each  new  novel  the  author  of 
'  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster  '  enlarges  his  audience,  and  surprises  old  friends 
by  reserve  forces  unsuspected.  Sterling  integrity  of  character  and  high 
moral  motives  illuminate  Dr.  Eggleston's  fiction,  and  assure  its  place  in  the 
literature  of  America  which  is  to  stand  as  a  worthy  reflex  of  the  best  thoughts 
of  this  age."  —  New  York  World, 

"One  of  the  novels  of  the  decade."  —  Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  extremely  fortunate  that  the  fine  subject  indicated  in  the  title 
should  have  fallen  into  such  competent  hands."  —  Pittsburgh  Chronicle- 
'1  elegraph. 

"  Much  skill  is  shown  by  the  author  in  making  these  'fads'  the  basis  of 
a  novel  of  great  interest.  .  ,  .  One  who  tries  to  keep  in  the  current  of  good 
novel-reading  must  certainly  find  time  to  read  '  The  Faith  Doctor."  "  — 
Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  A  vivid  and  life-like  transcript  from  several  phases  of  society.  Devoid 
of  literary  affectation  and  pretense,  it  is  a  wholesome  American  novel  well 
worthy  of  the  popularity  which  it  has  won."  —  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"The  author  of  'The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster'  has  enhanced  his  reputa 
tion  by  this  beautiful  and  touching  study  of  the  character  of  a  girl  to  love 
whom  proved  a  liberal  education  to  both  of  her  admirers."  —  London  Athe- 


AN  UTTER  FAIL  URE.  By  MIRIAM  COLES  HARRIS, 
•**  author  of  "  Rutledge."  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  story  with  an  elaborate  plot,  worked  out  with  great  cleverness  and 
with  the  skill  of  an  experienced  artist  in  fiction.  The  interest  is  strong  and 
at  times  very  dramatic.  .  .  .  Those  who  were  attracted  by  '  Rutledge  '  will 
give  hearty  welcome  to  this  story,  and  find  it  fully  as  enjoyable  as  that  once 
immensely  popular  novel." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  pathos  of  this  tale  is  profound,  the  movement  highly  dramatic,  the 
moral  elevating." — New  York  World. 

"  In  this  new  story  the  author  has  done  some  of  the  best  work  that  she 
has  ever  given  to  the  public,  and  it  will  easily  class  among  the  most  meri 
torious  and  most  original  novels  of  the  year." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  The  author  of  '  Rutledge '  does  not  often  send  out  a  new  volume,  but 
when  she  does  it  is  always  a  literary  event.  .  .  .  Her  previous  books  were 
sketchy  and  slight  when  compared  with  the  finished  and  trained  power 
evidenced  in  '  An  Utter  Failure.'  " — New  Haven  Palladium. 

"Exhibits  the  same  literary  excellence  that  made  the  success  of  the 
author's  first  book." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"American  girls  with  a  craving  for  titled  husbands  will  find  instructive 
reading  in  this  story." — Boston  Traveller. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


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D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


N  THE  PLANTATION.  By  JOEL  CHANDLER 
HARRIS,  author  of  "  Uncle  Remus."  With  23  Illus 
trations  by  E.  W.  KEMBLE,  and  Portrait  of  the  Author. 
I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  book  is  in  the  characteristic  vein  which  has  mnde  the  author  so 
famous  and  popular  as  an  interpreter  of  plantation  character." — Rochester 
Union  and  A  dvertiser. 

"Those  who  never  tire  of  Uncle  Remus  and  his  stories— with  whom  we 
would  be  accounted — will  delight  in  Joe  Maxwell  and  his  exploits." — 
London  Satitrday  Review. 

"Altogether  a  most  charming  book." — Chicago  Times. 

"Really  a  valuable,  if  modest,  contribution  to  the  history  of  the  civil 
war  within  the  Confederate  lines,  particularly  on  the  eve  of  the  catastrophe. 
Two  or  three  new  animal  fables  are  introduced  with  effect ;  but  the  history 
of  the  plantation,  the  printing-office,  the  black  runaways,  and  white  de 
serters,  of  whom  the  impending  break-up  made  the  community  tolerant,  the 
coon  and  fox  hunting,  forms  the  serious  purpose  of  the  book,  and  holds  the 
reader's  interest  from  beginning  to  end." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

T  TNCLE  REMUS:    His  Songs  and  his  Sayings.      The 
^      Folk-lore  of  the  Old  Plantation.     By  JOEL  CHANDLER 
HARRIS.    Illustrated  from  Drawings  by  F.  S.  CHURCH 
and  J.  H.  MOSER,  of  Georgia.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  idea  of  preserving  and  publishing  these  legends,  in  the  form  in 
which  the  old  plantation  negroes  actually  tell  them,  is  altogether  one  of  the 
happiest  literary  conceptions  of  the  day.  And  very  admirably  is  the  work 
done.  ...  In  such  touches  lies  the  charm  of  this  fascinating  little  volume 
of  legends,  which  deserves  to  be  placed  on  a  level  with  Reincke  Fuclis  for 
its  quaint  humor,  without  reference  to  the  ethnological  interest  possessed 
by  these  stories,  as  indicating,  perhaps,  a  common  origin  for  very  widely 
severed  races." — London  Spectator. 

"  We  are  just  discovering  what  admirable  literary  material  there  is  at 
home,  what  a  great  mine  there  is  to  explore,  and  how  quaint  and  peculiar 
is  the  material  which  can  be  dug  up.  Mr.  Harris's  book  may  be  looked  on 
in  a  double  light — either  as  a  pleasant  volume  recounting  the  stories  told  by 
a  typical  old  colored  man  to  a  child,  or  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  our 
somewhat  meager  folk-lore.  ...  To  Northern  readers  the  story  of  Brer 
(Brother — Brudder)  Rabbit  may  be  novel.  To  those  familiar  with  planta 
tion  life,  who  have  listened  to  these  quaint  old  stories,  who  have  still  tender 
reminiscences  of  some  good  old  mauma  who  told  these  wondrous  adventures 
to  them  when  they  were  children,  Brer  Rabbit,  the  Tar  Baby,  and  Brer  Fox 
come  back  again  with  all  the  past  pleasures  of  younger  days." — New  York 
Times. 

"  Uncle  Remus's  sayings  on  current  happenings  are  very  shrewd  and 
bright,  and  the  plantation  and  revival  songs  are  choice  specimens  of  their 
sort. "— Boston  Journal, 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


n~HE   LAST   WORDS    6F    THOMAS    CARLYLE. 
•*•        Including  Wotton  Reinfred,  Carlyle's   only   essay   in 

fiction  ;  the  Excursion  (Futile  Enough}  to  Paris  ;  and 

letters  from  Thomas  Carlyle,  also  letters  from  Mrs. 

Carlyle,  to  a  personal  friend.     With  Portrait.     I2mo. 

Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1-75. 

"The  interest  of  'Wotton  Reinfred'  to  me  is  considerable,  from  the 
sketches  which  it  contains  of  particular  men  and  women,  most  of  whom  I 
knew  and  could,  if  necessary,  identify.  The  story,  too,  is  taken  generally 
from  real  life,  and  perhaps  Carlyle  did  not  finish  it,  from  the  sense  that  it 
could  not  be  published  while  the  persons  and  things  could  be  recognized. 
That  objection  to  the  publication  no  longer  exists.  Everybody  is  dead 
whose  likenesses  have  been  drawn,  and  the  incidents  stated  have  long  been 
forgotten."— JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 

"'Wotton  Reinfred'  is  interesting  as  a  historical  document.  It  gives 
Carlyle  before  he  had  adopted  his  peculiar  manner,  and  yet  there  are  some 
characteristic  bits — especially  at  the  beginning — in  the  Sartor  Resartus 
vein.  I  take  it  that  these  are  reminiscences  of  Irving  and  of  the  Thackeray 
circle,  and  there  is  a  curious  portrait  of  Coleridge,  not  very  thinly  veiled. 
There  is  enough  autobiography,  too,  of  interest  in  its  way." — LESLIE 
STEPHEN. 

"No  complete  edition  of  the  Sage  of  Chelsea  will  be  able  to  ignore  these 
manuscripts." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

N,  MINES,  AND  ANIMALS  IN  SOUTH 
AFRICA.  By  Lord  RANDOLPH  S.  CHURCHILL. 
With  Portrait,  Sixty-five  Illustrations,  and  a  Map. 
8vo.  337  pages.  Cloth,  $5.00. 

"The  subject-matter  of  the  book  is  of  unsurpassed  interest  to  all  who 
either  travel  in  new  countries,  to  see  for  themselves  the  new  civilizations, 
or  follow  closely  the  experiences  of  such  travelers.  And  Lord  Randolph's 
eccentricities  are  by  no  means  such  as  to  make  his  own  reports  of  what  he 
saw  in  the  new  states  of  South  Africa  any  the  less  interesting  than  his  active 
eyes  and  his  vigorous  pen  naturally  make  them." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"Lord  Randolph  Churchill's  pages  are  full  of  diversified  adventures  and 
experience,  from  any  part  of  which  interesting  extracts  could  be  collected. 
...  A  thoroughly  attractive  book." — London  Telegraph. 

"  Provided  with  amusing  illustrations,  which  always  fall  short  of  cari 
cature,  but  perpetually  suggest  mirthful  entertainment."— Philadelphia 
Ledger. 

"  The  book  is  the  better  for  having  been  written  somewhat  in  the  line  of 
journalism.  It  is  a  volume  of  travel  containing  the  results  of  a  journalist's 
trained  observation  and  intelligent  reflection  upon  political  affairs.  Such 
a  work  is  a  great  improvement  upon  the  ordinary  book  of  travel.  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  experiences  in  the  African  bush, 
and  has  produced  a  record  of  his  journey  and  exploration  which  has  hardly 
a  dull  page  in  it." — New  York  Tribune. 

New  York :   D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

T IFE    IN   ANCIENT  EGYPT   AND    ASSYRIA. 

-^       By  G.  MASPERO,  late  Director  of  Archaeology  in  Egypt, 

and  Member  of  the  Institute  of  France.     Translated 

by  ALICE  MORTON.     With  188  Illustrations.     I2mo. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A  lucid  sketch,  at  once  popular  and  learned,  of  daily  life  in  Egypt  in 
the  time  of  Rameses  II,  and  of  Assyria  in  that  of  Assurbanipal.  ...  As  an 
Orientalist,  M.  MaspeYo  stands  in  the  front  rank,  and  his  learning  is  so  well 
digested  and  so  admirably  subdued  to  the  service  of  popular  exposition,  that 
it  nowhere  overwhelms  and  always  interests  the  reader." — London  Times. 

"  Only  a  writer  who  had  distinguished  himself  as  a  student  of  Egyptian 
and  Assyrian  antiquities  could  have  produced  this  work,  which  has  none  of 
the  features  of  a  modern  book  of  travels  in  the  East,  but  is  an  attempt  to 
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whose  civilization  and  social  usages  are  very  largely  restored." — Boston 
Herald. 

"  The  ancient  artists  are  copied  with  the  utmost  fidelity,  and  verify  the 
narrative  so  attractively  presented."  —  Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

H^IIE  THREE  PROPHETS:  Chinese  Gordon;  Mo- 
hammed- A hmed ;  Araby  Pasha.  Events  before,  dur 
ing,  and  after  the  Bombardment  of  Alexandria.  By 
Colonel  CHAILLE-LONG,  ex-Chief  of  Staff  to  Gordon 
in  Africa,  ex-United  States  Consular  Agent  in  Alex 
andria,  etc.  With  Portraits.  i6mo.  Paper,  50  cents. 

"  Comprises  the  observations  of  a  man  who,  by  reason  of  his  own  military 
experience  in  Egypt,  ought  to  know  whereof  he  speaks." — Washington 
Post. 

"  Throws  an  entirely  new  light  upon  the  troubles  which  have  so  long 
agitated  Egypt,  and  upon  their  real  significance." — Chicago  Times. 

rpHE  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ARABIAN  PRINCESS. 

•*•         By  EMILY  RUETE,  ne'e  Princess  of  Oman  and  Zanzibar. 

Translated  from  the  German.      I2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

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Y  CANADIAN  JOURNAL,  1872-78.  By  LADY 
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M 


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ON'T;  or,  Directions  for  avoiding  Improprieties  in 
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